


Careful

by adenium (peccolia)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Monsters on the Surface, Multi, Reader Is Not Frisk, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Swearing, and it's gonna be cute, but papyrus is a cinnamon roll ok, everyone shows up at some point - Freeform, gotta work for that happiness, hurting and healing yourself, reader is an asshole, reader is going through hard times, some OCs, with a bit of help from others, yep that's right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-06-06 07:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6745768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peccolia/pseuds/adenium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t that he thought you couldn’t handle yourself—it’s just that he’s wired to help people when they’re in trouble and you REALLY looked like you needed some intervention.</p><p>He wasn’t completely off the mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Off to a Rough Start

Monsters, on the surface.

Monsters, blending in with society.

Monsters, being _real._

You don’t particularly give a damn; you grew up with that shit on TV and in comic books. It doesn’t change your daily life all that much to have it all spilling into reality.

It has little bearing on whether or not you would be dragging yourself home at night with bruised ribs and bloody knuckles—but you’re under no illusion this is anyone’s fault besides your own. Hell, you were the one to throw the first punch and everything just exploded from there.

Well, that’s what you get for drinking too much. But the guy was seriously asking for it. _Seriously_. He just wouldn’t quit nagging the girl sitting beside him when she was clearly not interested and his voice was just _so_ irritatingly nasally and—yeah. That’s no reason to start a fight, but you’d been looking for an excuse and he gave it.

Most of the odd little creatures avoid you when they see your roughed-up self, anyway. Skitter off to hide in the shadows or shift their hulking forms aside so you don’t get blood on their fur—or scales. Or whatever. They are just like the uninterested humans that inhabited the earth long before they came up (or did they live here once upon a time, too? You can’t remember; you were always one to cut history class).

None of them make a single move when the guy you’d punched in the mouth tracks you down and blocks your way with a couple of his buddies. None of them bat an eyelash when the brutes manhandle you into a dark alley and shove you against a wall.

“You really thought you could just walk away, punk?” A hand grips the collar of your black jacket, yanking you up before slamming your back into the craggy bricks behind you as you avert your stare from the seething leer your good ol’ bar fight buddy pins you with. Lackey One and Lackey Two stand behind the lanky guy, cracking their knuckles and doing their best to look tough but only managing some goofy gorilla faces, more than just a little pathetic because they are no larger than he is. “I was so fucking close to getting that bitch to go home with me and then YOU had to ruin everything.”

A muffled snicker escapes your lips. You can’t help it—what a fucking joke. This guy really thinks he’s some Casanova? He looked worse when he _didn’t_ have the fat lip, and calling bar-going women looking for a good time demeaning names was just the icing on the cake.

“Something _funny?_ ” He gives you another shake and shoves you against the wall again, hard, his forearm pressing against your sternum, against your sore ribs. You only flinch slightly, barely more than a blink, and edge your hand to your pocket.

“Yeah. You’re one ugly fucker.” You grin as wide as your mouth allows in the face of his disbelief.

A scowl contorts his face and he shoves you to the ground, right into a stagnant puddle at the feet of his goons. And you splashed their new shoes—oh, they aren’t happy about that one bit. A heel launches toward you, but you manage to topple sideways and let your upper arm take the brunt of the hit as you stagger to your feet and pull a knife from your jacket, flicking the blade open with a slightly clumsy (but practiced) hand. More as a scare tactic than a threat, really—but they don’t need to know that.

And, naturally, they hesitate, throwing up their guards and looking to each other to gauge whether this fight is worth it when weapons are involved.

“Come on,” you taunt. “There’s no witnesses now, so let’s do this.” Stir them up—get a reaction. That’s how these things go. Your fingers clench the knife, fitting perfectly into the worn grooves, as you gnash your teeth and manage a small, wicked smile. Smiling as the adrenaline surges, as your heart races—as their hands curl into fists and their feet shift on the concrete, bodies braced.

This is what you live for.

* * *

Papyrus doesn’t mind working the graveyard shift—not that he realizes he’s been given the short end of the stick because no one else in his workplace wants to work into the wee hours of the morning and he’s the only one who wouldn’t say no—but, because of who he is, he works his hardest and does his utmost to be an upstanding monster of society no matter what that entails, because he is the GREAT Papyrus and there is no room for failure. He takes pride in what he does.

And there are bills to be paid that Sans’ _‘income’_ (he’s doing his best to learn the human world terminology) alone won’t cover.

These little odd jobs are just temporary, he believes. Mopping floors, cleaning windows, vacuuming crumb-covered, paper-flecked carpet, delivering mail and food orders—it’s all just one small step in the staircase he’s climbing towards his goal.

Things are different in the human world. But if it means he’ll have his dream of driving a shiny red convertible down the highway someday, he doesn’t mind the changes one bit. And he doesn’t mind helping out, either.

He hums and upbeat, triumphant tune he thinks he’s heard from a video game Frisk plays under his breath as he walks the darkened streets, watching as passersby thin out and the distance between passing cars dwindles into near nothing. It’s a calm time. It reminds him of the coolness underground, and there are the stars— _real_ stars. A little difficult to see, sometimes, with all of the—what’s it called? ‘ _Light pollution’_ obscuring the sky, but that never discouraged the moon before.

He quite likes the moon.

Especially when it’s a cut-out little crescent, barely there, but hanging on and doing its best to brighten up the night.

Wowie. What a neat thing!

He’s so caught up admiring the moon that he almost passes the alley fight completely by. In fact, he does pass it by—until he realizes something caught his eye and he stops and doubles back, because so many humans gathered together in one place at night means something of interest is definitely happening. Once, he’d encountered a dance-off challenge. But, optimism aside, more often than not it involves bullying and terrorizing younger, smaller monsters that can’t defend themselves against grown adults with a penchant for violence and that is one thing he simply can’t stand for.

But rather than a cornered, frightened monster, he sees a young human squaring off against three men with a knife in hand and that sends alarm bells ringing in his skull because Sans always says not to get involved in Human Business when he’d be better off just walking away. They look out for their own. But the strangers—most of which who don’t treat them all that kindly—can look out for themselves. Like they always did, before the barrier was broken.

It isn’t exactly something he agrees with.

Still, he holds back, watching from the corner and debating, as one the men lunges your way and you jerk to the side, swiping your blade in a wide arc that misses your attacker, barely brushing his shirt. But you’re too focused on him to realize the second throws a sucker punch that pops you right on the nose and you stagger back, covering your face. When you move your hand to reveal a bloodied mess, he’s surprised to see you’re still smiling, all teeth.

The spilled blood unsettles the attackers. They glance to each other again, as if asking if they should really be doing this, until the third guy, one whose face looks a little bruised-up, shoves them aside and stalks up to you, grabbing the hand that has the knife and twisting it hard enough that it clatters to the ground.

It’s at this point Papyrus steps forward, almost without realizing his actions, and prepares to call out, to distract them, and hopefully find a way to resolve the fight before things really escalate (but human fights are so, so different from SOUL battles and he’s never really certain if anyone is in any true danger and humans never turn into dust), but before he can speak, your free hand snaps out and punches the man in the jaw and he reels back with a yelp, cradling his injured face.

You don’t waste a moment swiping up your knife with your bloody hand and squaring your shoulders, expression livid as you yell out a particularly violent taunt Papyrus almost willingly blocks out from entering his ears and won’t repeat because it’s far too crude and involves specific human anatomy.

The man you punched, complete with bloody teeth, is helped up by one of his friends and it seems they’ve reached their quota of night fighting because they take a few steps back in retreat, flipping you a few rude hand gestures and overall looking defeated and scared. “Fucking crazy drunk!”

One of the men’s shoulders bumps into Papyrus as he’s standing frozen, halfway to the fight, and he gives a yelp as the tall form of a skeleton—a monster—meets his eyes. He flinches back and rushes the other two along, never looking back. Sometimes the fact that humans are terrified of him is disheartening, but other times he’s glad that it provides some form of protection against their cruel ways.

The fight is over.

You don’t notice Papyrus, and he makes no moves to let you know he’s there, because you are scowling and hunched over, hand pressed tightly to your nose to stem the blood flow—drawing back as you flinch and then tenderly prod at the area, thinking it’s broken, and let out a steady stream of curses that give Undyne a run for her money.

Frankly, you look terrified, body trembling, eyes squeezed shut, hand tightly clutching the handle of your knife, shaking. It’s then that it strikes him you’re small—so small, beneath the slightly-too-large jacket, blood-streaked white T-shirt, skinny jeans and mud-caked boots. It’s a stark comparison to a frightened animal and he finds he’s unwilling to approach and scare you away, yet at the same time feels a nag of compassion in his too-big heart because leaving you alone like that doesn’t sit right with him. 

You’d handled this situation on your own and it was your business. Perhaps Sans was right. If he was a good little brother who listened to every single thing his sibling said, he would leave. Just turn and walk away.

But he is an adult who can make his own decisions and the decision he makes, after careful consideration, is to approach you and set a hand on your shoulder. “HUMAN, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

You let out a half-strangled yell as you whirl around, eyes blazing, and time seems to slow down to sludge as you throw your arm out, knife in hand, not quite able to stop, still wound up and tense as a spring shooting up and you really didn’t think it would be anyone else besides one of those goons coming back to get revenge, to catch you off your guard and really try to hurt you, and all you’re thinking is _wait, wait waitwaitwait!_ as the blade sinks into the fabric of his shirt, driving in deep, and the fierce expression drops from your face as you meet the empty eye-sockets of a monster and you know you’re fucked, _really_ fucked, more fucked than you’d ever been in your life because you might be an aggressive asshole who starts all kinds of shit with other humans, but never, _never_ with monsters—

For one, terrible moment, you know you’re dead. Finished. _Finito._

But as time catches up with you and you can feel your chest heaving, breaths coming in ragged, rapid wheezes, you realize the blade isn’t stuck. There is no flesh. No solid surface but the shirt logo it ripped into. You easily pull the knife back and take a step back—two steps back, three, five—before your back slams into a wall and you let out a shaky, half-mad laugh. The blade had long since dropped from your hold, and you press one hand flat against your chest, feeling your heart drumming against your ribs. “Oh, man,” you choke out, hearing how congested and hoarse your voice is, feeling the sharp sting in your nose as you crinkle your eyes and grin and tasting the sick-sour tang of blood on your tongue. “I’m fine. Just _dandy._ Sorry…sorry about that.” You hold up both hands in surrender, now, while the monster simply stands frozen, taking in the entire scene and waiting for it to jostle him back to reality.

Papyrus stares down at the hole made in his shirt—his new shirt, bought specifically for work, nice and clean, iron-pressed and official—before looking to you once again. For the first time in his life, he’s utterly gobsmacked and rendered into silence. There’s something he should say. He knows it. But the words just won’t come out.

His silence grates on your nerves and you’ve never been one to take kindly to people who annoy you. You let your hands fall and along with it, your grin. “Well? What’re you standing there for? Go on, get lost now.” You can’t bring yourself to raise your voice and settle for a low, vaguely threatening calm. Blood drips past your lips and you remember the pain, and without thinking too much about it, lean your head back and press your sleeve gingerly against your nose.

“YOU DON’T LOOK ‘FINE,’ HUMAN. NOR DO YOU LOOK DANDY.”

You almost sputter with indignity—you can’t help it. The way this guy speaks, it’s like he’s basically screaming in all-caps at you, in a vaguely papery-crinkled font style. Not to mention it’s seriously one of the most _irritating_ voices you’d ever heard. Bar fight guy’s voice paled in comparison.

But you’re willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, here. He’s a monster after all. Maybe they all sound like that. You never pay much attention, really.

The skeleton monster steps towards you a few steps, filled with purpose, and you hold your other hand out to stop him. “Hey, I’m really fine, here. Really. Get gone, pal.” No one ever stops to help you like this—you’re more confused than anything. You don’t really know what to do, but you know what you _want_ to do, and if this wall wasn’t behind you and the skeleguy wasn’t blocking your exit, you’d be outta there.

Because the adrenaline is ebbing away and when it finally leaves you, you know you’ll be in for a world of pain. Crying and cringing in front of a monster, of all things, isn’t in your agenda.

“I’m sorry if I startled you and I see that you want me to leave. However, you are leaking, Human. Allow me to help you!”

When he speaks again, it’s in the same tone, though marginally softer on your ears and not so grating. Filled with something you’d long since forgotten and can’t quite identify, but it’s warm and comforting and—frankly, makes you want to gag.

That, and the word _help._

Help? You? You grin again, filled with purpose, and push away from the wall, stomping towards the monster with heavy, measured steps until you’re standing almost toe-to-toe, squaring up. You have to tilt your head back a considerable distance to meet his eyes. You know you look ridiculous and stubborn with your hand pressed to your nose, still, but you don’t let any of that deter you because no matter how banged-up you look you can still _kick ass_.

“What can _you_ help _me_ with? How long were you here? Were you just hiding, watching the fight like some spineless—” you halted briefly here, eyes traveling to his shirt-covered ribcage where there most definitely _was_ a spine, before your gaze snapped back up to his eye sockets. “—helpless bastard, too afraid to step in? What makes you think you can just come up here now after it’s all over and _ask_ that?” You can barely understand what you’re saying with a plugged-up and likely broken (hell if you know, but it stings) nose and don’t imagine he’s faring much better trying to translate it all as he studies your face.

Before you can manage another slew of spiteful words, he is lightly holding a handful of tissues against your bleeding nose, and one of his hands presses against the back of your skull, gently nudging your head in the opposite angle you held it. “You have to tilt your head forward. The leaking will stop sooner that way!”

To your disgust, he’s _smiling._ Proudly. Like he’s more than happy to be playing nurse, _humiliating_ you. Your hands twitch before slowly curling into fists at your sides.

“I will not hold the…stabbing…against you, Reckless Human. You were clearly distraught and if you knew it was I, the Great Papyrus, standing behind you, you wouldn’t have been so rash!” He can’t see your expression growing into an increasingly frustrated scowl as your head is bent downwards, and continues speaking. “I did consider stepping in. I nearly did, but the conflict suddenly ended.”

“Like…I… _needed_ your help…”

“Would you like me to walk you home, Reckless Human?”

That’s the last straw. With as much force as you can muster, you reach out and plant your hands firmly against his ribcage (noting the very prominent and very creepy bone ridges beneath the fabric as you do so) and shove. He hardly stumbles and, really, you do more in pushing yourself back as the intent backfires.

“Fuck off! Mind your own business, okay, guy?!” The knife on the concrete catches your eye, and for a brief moment you think to pick it up and use it to scare off this nosy skeleton. But seeing the hole in his shirt has you hesitating, biting your lip, clicking your tongue and growling out a swear in frustration. You don’t threaten people like him. _Monsters like him._  

But he doesn’t move. Only watches you with those—concerned eyes. _Caring_ eyes. It’s selfish, no matter how you look at it and you don’t want a damn thing to do with his self-absorbed rescue. Screw it. Screw _him._ You push forward at a run and barrel past the skeleton, not caring that your footfalls kick up water and splash the bottom of your pants.

Because that’s what you do. You run away.

“WAIT,” he calls after you, but you ignore his words and disappear around the corner, running down the street at a full-on sprint, never looking back.

Papyrus watches you leave, and stares at the end of the alleyway for some few moments after. You are definitely one of the…stranger humans he’d ever met, but then again he doesn’t interact with many outside of work. Outside of Frisk—and they set the bar quite high for how he now expects humans to be. Frisk is all happiness and kindness and warmth, sweet little-kid fluffy feelings of fun and pure, infallible strength. You…all you leave behind is the vague sense of failure and…something sharp and jagged and rough around the edges.  

He looks down at the blood-stained tissues in his hand and worries for a moment, hoping you take care of yourself, wherever you went. He catches sight of the forgotten knife on the ground near his feet and the moonlight glinting on the blade makes him realize something, and it’s something rather significant.

You wouldn’t leave something like that behind on purpose, would you…? No, certainly not. It’s an expensive item, with initials carved straight into the metal. Something you would most certainly want _returned_ and he realizes you’d simply run off because you were _embarrassed_ and this is his chance to set things right and clear up the miscommunications that occurred between you. And maybe, _maybe,_ you could become friends.

Imagine that, his first _human_ friend on the surface that he’d make all by himself!

He picks up the knife with a hopeful smile and carefully closes it, setting it into his pocket for safekeeping until he can find you again. Now, he really needs to get home because it’s late and his brother always worries when he isn’t home at least fifteen minutes after his shift without a call.

Boy, will Sans be surprised when he tells him about his new reckless human friend.


	2. Give A Guy A Break

Blood unfurls in the water, swirling and twirling in a crimson dance, grasping the hands of soap bubbles and spinning, dipping, frothing into pink as it crawls to the surface, or fades away as it sinks towards the base of the tub. It’s pretty gross.

And the water is warm, not scalding, because the pipes leak and with as old and shitty as they are, this is the best you get even if you just want to burn it all away.

You watch the suspended color with blank eyes, watching air bubbles escape your nose and race upwards before following after them and breaking through the few patches of bubbles overhead, letting them cling to your hair as it sticks to your face, weighed down by wetness.

Even with the constantly lukewarm—and more often than not cold—water filling it, this fancy, vintage bathtub is the best damn thing about your shitty, run-down apartment. It eases the aches and pains away better than any of the painkillers you can get ahold of and all you have to do is sink, sink, sink into it and forget about life for a while, surrounded only by a membrane of liquid in dead silence, until you have to breathe again.

Best damn cure for a hangover you’d ever found.

You touch the dark bruise spreading across your ribs. You shouldn’t have it, really. But you were clumsy, drunk, and tripped, and the guy you stirred up trouble with knocked you into the bar. It was the only hit he got in that night, though. Each of the guys who attacked you only got in one hit each, really, and for you, that is actually a pretty good day.  Gently, you prod at your aching nose, knowing it’s swollen and your eyes are shadowed in purple from broken blood vessels, but it’s only swelling and at least the blood is washed off. The pain has dulled and it doesn’t feel broken. Still, you look like complete and utter shit.

Those thoughts are confirmed when you heave yourself out of the tub and catch sight of your face in the mirror. Just to spite it, you manage a wide, toothy grin before turning away, bundling yourself into a fluffy bathrobe and splashing wet footsteps through the hallway as you make your way to the kitchenette.

Calling it a kitchenette is a stretch, though. It’s just a corner of the room with a mini-fridge crammed against one wall, a small counter with a couple of cabinets, and a tiny microwave barely big enough for frozen dinner trays. But it’s yours, and it’ll have to do because you’re fucking _hungry._

You dig through the cabinets until you find the crinkling package of a block of instant noodles and you don’t waste time tearing it open and chomping into the dry, crusty thing. You don’t care. It’s better than eating soggy, paper-pulp noodles soaked in over-seasoned broth. But you fill a mug with tap water, shake in the seasoning powder and throw it in the microwave anyway, because you could use a nice, hot drink and hot water on its own is so dull and disgusting.

By the time it’s done, your noodles have been devoured and it’s a poor, pathetic excuse for a meal, but it’s all you care to pick up at the corner store these days and it’s perfect for a late night meal.

The steam from the mug feels great against your aching face and you think this must be what it’s like to be born again, all renewed and fresh.

Your daily ritual doesn’t vary much from this.

Out of a job, out of a _life_ , you eat, you sleep, you dick around, go to bars and drink and pick fights, then come home and wait for the cycle to start up again. 

But…no. Tonight was different. Just a little, and if you’d just passed out on your mattress and forgotten about it, it could have gone forgotten as nothing more than a dream. Yet you find yourself dwelling on it, reviewing it, slowly sipping on stale broth and looking past the crooked blinds on the only window in your home to the crescent moon shining out in the sky.

The skeleton’s smile floats to the forefront of your mind and you grit your teeth, grinding them together in a way that’s far from healthy.

He makes you feel lower than low. Because he had the nerve to _care._ When it was none of his business and if he knew what was good for him, he would have ignored you just like everyone else.

That kind of self-centered, heroic attitude from a stranger—it pisses you off.

You don’t _need_ anyone to care.

You’re all cactus spines and salty sailor swears, hardened and bitter, scathing, acidic enough to turn stomachs, just to push nice people away with fair warning. Because if someone comes near you with that kind of thing, they’ll only get hurt and it fucks you all up inside to bow to the fact that someone good _tried to help_ and didn’t get it through their thick skull that they had better things to do and better places to be.

And you _hate_ the tears flooding your eyes and the snot burning in your bruised nose and the way your hands shake as they grip the hot coffee mug, not even hot enough to hurt, and the way your heart curls in on itself and you just want to shrivel up and die because you’re a horrible fucking person and you don’t know when you crashed down to rock bottom but you don’t know how to get up again and it hurts it hurts _it hurts and it’s screaming inside but it can’t get out and you’re stuck you’re trapped—_

Fuck _that._

Ceramic goes flying as the coffee mug shatters against the wall in an explosion of sub-par soup and you’re scowling because that’s the only mug you have and it was your favorite. 

Muffled voices seep through the floorboards and soon a broom handle booms against the floor beneath your feet three solid times, followed by muted swearing and you don’t have the strength to care but it pisses you off nonetheless and you reach for your knife on instinct, just to release some agitation and carve something into the table like you always do—but your hand grasps air.

Your world stops.

“No….nonono!” You shove your hands into the pockets of your robe and search—check, double, triple check—drop to your knees and scan the floor, hands flailing along knotty wooden planks, and then you’re back on your feet, running for the clothes you’d carelessly thrown to the ground in the bathroom. You grab the pants, shake them, turn out the pockets, turn them inside out—do the same with your jacket, and come up empty.

Your heat races wildly as the air thins around you and you choke on your breath, sinking to the floor and gripping your hair in your hands.

You didn’t…

Did you?

You forgot…

_You left it._

That’s right. That’s…right.

A clear memory of the switchblade lying abandoned on the concrete next to the monster’s shoes replays before you and you can’t even focus on the sinking feeling in your gut as laughter bubbles up past your lips and you’re so, _so_ tired.

Fuck it. Just…fuck it.

* * *

Papyrus’ high spirits are soaring. He’d been looking forward to sleep earlier that night, but his energy levels are so high now that he’s afraid he won’t be able to. All thanks to _you_.

New friendships are a brilliant thing. No one could ever have too many friends. And you—you are something absolutely wonderful. An interesting human!

“hey, bro, i was starting to get a little worried. what took you?” Of course, Sans is waiting up for him, reclined lazily on the couch but not looking like he’d had a wink of sleep since nightfall.

“SANS! YOU WON’T BELIEVE THE AMAZING NEWS!” he crows, never one to use his inside voice when particularly excited, even when it’s well past midnight.

Sans can’t help but flinch and anticipate complaining neighbors, but it’s become so routine that no one really, seriously minds it anymore. No one can hate Pap’s eccentricity for long, after all. He’s too cool.

“oh yeah?” He rubs a hand against the side of his smooth skull as he sits up. “i’m all ears, pal.” It isn’t too late at night for some jokes. But his brother only manages a slight frown and furrowed eyebones before launching into his story, striding in from the doorway and pacing in front of the couch.

“I HAVE MADE A NEW FRIEND. A HUMAN FRIEND. A RECKLESS HUMAN FRIEND!”

Human? Reckless? That has Sans pausing, raising an eyebrow, and squinting at his sibling. But he doesn’t interrupt, yet. Even when his eyes catch sight of an odd tear in his shirt.

The taller skeleton pauses momentarily when a shout comes through the walls and he cringes apologetically before lowering his voice. “They are very intriguing. Have you ever met someone that says the opposite of what they mean, Sans?” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws the knife, holding it out and beaming in a way that only The Great Papyrus can manage. “They were extremely adamant about running me off, yet they left behind such an important item for me to return to them!”

Sans goes cold. The hole in his brother’s shirt no longer looks peculiar.

“say, papyrus…”

Papyrus’ eyes follow his brother’s gaze and he briefly looks down to the hole in his shirt, sticking a finger through it and musing for a second, before glancing up again. “Oh! No need to be alarmed. It was only an accident!”

An accident. _Only an accident._

Like he tripped and a knife just so happened to be sticking out of someone’s hand when they caught him.

This is exactly why he tells his brother to pick and choose his interactions with humans—but tries not to be pushy about it because Papyrus can make his own choices and he can’t control what he does and socializing with humans isn’t inherently bad. He can only do his best to guide him as a responsible brother. As someone who cares. As someone who wants to preserve this happy surface life.

As someone who gets _really fucking pissed_ when his brother’s been outright threatened—assaulted—and doesn’t seem to understand the danger he could have faced because he’s always, always optimistic and looking at the bright side of things and that part of him is so damn strong and admirable that it blinds him sometimes.

What’s worse is that he knows that knife. It’s not just a typical switchblade, no—it’s one that sticks in memory because of its unique, pearlescent handle and what he knows will be initials carved into the blade when it’s revealed. It’s a knife a certain stab-happy semi-regular at Grillby’s bar whips out when they feel particularly threatened and it’s gotten them kicked to the curb more times than he can count even though it’s never actually touched monster or human before—until now.

He doesn’t know you. Doesn’t care to. But anyone who waves a dangerous thing like that around when they’re in a near-constant state of being drunk—never mind sober—is a loose cannon that can’t be trusted. Much less a _friend._ Much _much_ less someone who should even exist in the same plane as his brother after doing something so, so stupid.

He fucking hates your guts.

Sans doesn’t realize Papyrus has been rambling on until he hears his name.

“Sans? Did you fall asleep?” A bony hand waves in front of his face.

“nope. i’m still awake, buddy.”

“Oh, good! Then, as I was saying, first thing tomorrow morning I’m going to set out to find Reckless Human and return their token of friendship. I hope they are doing alright—their nose was bleeding quite a bit...”

That’s Papyrus, for you. Worrying about others before himself.

And he should.

Because now Sans has a bone to pick with you.

* * *

He makes it out of the house before Papyrus wakes up. It’s good that he has the night shift sometimes, because when he sleeps he sleeps like the dead; knocks out completely until his alarm clock wakes him up. And Sans’ schedule is flexible and Alphys doesn’t mind if he wanders into the science lab a little late in the morning because their classes don’t start up until noon anyway.

It isn’t often that he makes the best use of his free time, but today is the exception.

You’re not difficult to find. A troublemaking punk like you makes a certain kind of reputation and a few, well-placed words turn up a location better than magic.

Naturally, you’re holed up in the only 24/7 bar in town, one with cigarette smoke so thick it’s like the place has its own clouds. You don’t smoke the things, he notices, but obviously have no qualms living in it and taking in carcinogens second-hand. There’s the greasy remains of some subpar bar breakfast on a plate beside your hand, pushed away to the edge of the table when you finished gnawing on it, and a glass of something that looks like milk, definitely spiked with something.

You don’t look so great—really, you look like shit. Dark, purple circles shadow your eyes and your nose looks swollen and he can’t bring himself to care about that because as far as he’s concerned you deserve everything you get. What’s more, you’re dazed and staring out somewhere in the room with half-lidded eyes, not quite there, not quite focused, tapping the screen of your smart phone on auto-pilot. Sans is sure you don’t even notice he’s standing at your table until he makes a point of sitting down across from you.

Your eyes meet his, moving slowly and taking a moment to adjust before you give a slow blink. And then a scowl spreads across your face as you sober up and sit straight in your chair, squinting in confusion when you realize someone’s invading your space.

“The fuck you want, short shit?”

He wasn’t expecting this to be a polite conversation. On his way here, he considered breaking the ice with a snappy one-liner joke (because he wants to believe that underneath all that hardness and spite humans are good at heart), but you’re not even worth it and when it involves his brother it’s no joking matter. And he’s completely put off by your gravelly attitude, but he came here with a purpose and he’s going to say his piece before he gives in to the urge to just walk away but wow are you one unpleasant human.

“Wait,” you speak up again before he can, and lean forward slightly, resting your elbow on the tabletop. “You’re the smiley guy who’s always at Grillby’s. Thought that was your haunt—do you make the rounds in all these shit holes, too? No, don’t answer that. I don’t give a fuck. Also, scram.” You give a cruel, wolfish smile he can only imagine is a mockery of his own constant-smile and make a shooing gesture with your hand.

If he didn’t have a virtually limitless temper and superhuman laziness, Sans would have snapped by now. But you’re already exhausting him and he hasn’t said a word.

Better just get it over with.

“don’t be too hasty now, kid. i may be wrong here, but you’re missing that knife you like to carry around, right?” He covers his distaste with a neutral tone, because he isn’t an _asshole._

You shoot up so fast your chair wobbles and nearly crashes to the ground, and he hears your knee crack against the table leg but you’re too intent on his words to notice or care, too preoccupied with throwing your hand out to grab him by the collar of his jacket—but you wince and fall short, quickly drawing back, before making any actual contact. “Where is it. _Where is it?_ Tell me!” Still, your gaze is burning and you’re gripping the edges of the table so hard your knuckles are white.

He wasn’t expecting that _knee-jerk reaction_. “relax. my brother found it and he’s going to give it back once he finds you.”

Your brow furrows in confusion and you mutter the word “brother” under your breath.

“yeah. the one you tried to stab.”

At that, you go rigid, and even through the splotchiness of your messed up face, he sees your skin pale. You sink back into your chair and stare down at your phone, all the fight in you drained and not a thing left to say. The rough attitude is all just a front, it seems, but at least you’re smart, unlike some humans. You know when to quit when it involves monsters.

“So…” you finally speak again, voice uneven, but colder than ever in an attempt to salvage your moment of weakness. “You here to kick my ass or somethin’? You’re being awful formal about it.”

“don’t get ahead of yourself. i wouldn’t bother wasting my time. when he finds you, just take the knife. take it and leave. he’s got this idea that you want to be his _friend_ because of your little run in, but that won’t happen, yeah?”

You almost laugh. But you spit out a venomous response that makes him want to hate you more than he already does. “Friends? With him? _Hell_ no.”

“stay away from him. if you don’t, and if something like last night happens again, you’re gonna have a bad time.” He didn’t come here to threaten you, but the words slip out of his mouth before he can catch them and he’s an overprotective fool.

But you don’t even take him seriously—that much is clear by the way you grab your glass and raise it up, one side of your lips quirking up in some semblance of agreement.

“Already am. But I get what you’re saying. I don’t want anything to do with that guy. You won’t have any trouble from me ever again once I get what’s mine, short stuff.”

The tension between you two is thicker than the fog of smoke, saturating the air and almost physically weighing down the atmosphere but you keep up that smile like a pro. Sans holds your gaze, measuring you up, and what feels like a full minute passes before he rises to his feet and walks away without any sense of accomplishment.

He’s got a bad feeling about you.

* * *

Your eyes follow the short skeleton’s retreating figure until he’s out the door, and then they linger there, boring holes into the wall long after he’s gone.

He’s got a real pair, that one. Real balls of steel, bringing idle threats and unpleasant conversation to your pathetic breakfast time. At Grillby’s, he always came off as a real slacker and funny-guy type, cracking shitty puns and performing that nasty ketchup-chugging routine. Sometimes, you found yourself snickering from your corner at the bar until someone knocked your elbow or bumped into you and set you off.

But this—this is a different side to the jokester. One you can’t help but respect—and equally loathe because the concern for his sibling makes you want to hurl.

You’re more than happy to oblige his words. Once you get your knife back, you don’t want anything to do with him _or_ his meddling brother. It’s just a matter of waiting until the tall one finds you.

…or, tracking him down yourself.

* * *

Grillby’s pub isn’t the only monster lair in town. Seasoned little bar-hopping rat that you are, you know where to get the best cheap booze, the worst expensive swill; you know where to find the coziest hole-in-the-wall with the best people, the nicest establishment with most stuck-up, haughty rich fucks—and the places that cater to all living kinds without prejudice.

It isn’t a bar run by another monster, though. You figure the hothead has that market cornered. But this place is just as good and although it’s a little too clean for your tastes, it attracts all sorts. And the barkeep has a memory like a pristine filing cabinet. You think she must have every monster’s name, face, height, and weight recorded in that magic coconut of hers because she never forgets a thing. Like how much you owe on your tab. Or—

“ _Get out._ You’re not allowed back here for another week.” A hard-looking Southern spitfire with a rail-thin body and lots of sleek, dark clothing topped off with a short, black bob points her finger straight at you as you saunter through the door.

“Gimme a break, Mim. I’m sober right now. Promise.”

She’s wearing a tank top, and with her toned arm raised, you can see unshaved underarm hair blatantly exposed. First thought is that is some hippie bullshit, but second thought that overrides that is more power to her because really who fucking cares. You meet her gaze and give a slight grin and shrug of the shoulders. It’s then that she gets a good look at your face.

“Jesus, who’d you piss off this time?” Her lip curls up as she grimaces, heavily-lined eyelids squinting so hard in disdain her eyes disappear.

“I tripped. That’s all. You know how I get when I’m tipsy.”

All she offers in response is an unconcerned snort and roll of the eyes as you approach and lean on the bar, observing the other patrons in the bar from the corners of your eyes. You bounce your heel along to the slow, muted melody of the radio floating out from behind the counter while you spot a human in the corner, two conversing bird-looking things at one end of the bar, and a big, hairy monster sitting near the bathroom hallway. All peaceful, all minding their own business.

“Don’t think I’m gonna ask for your order. Hurry up and tell me what you want before I ask Gab over here to show you the door.” That would be the big, hairy monster.

Shit, some people. You hold up your hands and sigh. “Just got a quick question. Then I’ll be gone. You know any skeletons? Tall ones, specifically. Specifically specifically, where said tall skeleton works.”

Her eyes narrow and you know she’s just running it all through her mind, wringing you dry with that nasty scowl of hers. You know she loves monsters, just looooves them, and that you’re a far cry from loving anything. You don’t _look_ for people or monsters, you look for jobs. Things. Money.

“The hell you asking for?”

“I think his name’s ‘Parmesan’ or something,” you continue, ignoring her question and tracing your finger along the shining countertop, drawing out the shape of your missing knife. “He…kind of helped me out the other day. I wanna thank him.” Your tongue pokes out slightly past your lips as you spin the lie, before you look up and met Mim’s eyes, stirring up the most sincere expression you could manage.

Maybe she thinks you just look constipated, because she looks away in disgust and crosses her arms.

With a sigh, you reach for one of the napkins nearby and pull a pen from your pocket. You scribble out a familiar logo, seared into your mind, albeit slashed in half, and slide it across to the woman. “This was on his shirt. Hell if I know what kinda company it belongs to.”

“Ain’t that what the internet’s for?”

Heaven help you.

It takes all of your self-restraint not to reach across the bar and throttle the bartender, and you manage a forced grin instead. “Look, _Mim,_ try to remember who, once upon a time, used to keep the goons outta your bar before Gab here came along. I’m just askin’ for a fucking favor.”

“Mmhm. And you drank on the job and barely managed to do jack shit of good.” She gives you a piercing look before shaking her head. “Fine. Yeah, I know ‘im. Papyrus. He’s a real good kid. Works for the same company that comes and cleans up here ev’ry now and then. But that’s only part of the week. Think he works as an errand boy some days. That right, Gab?”

The hairy monster, seriously hairy, covered in shockingly pastel colors, nods his great, moose-like head. You can’t even see his eyes through all that fur. “Thursdays to Saturdays he’s on cleaning duty at those fancy offices on Main.”

Mim raises her eyebrows at you, giving you a level stare. “There ya go. Info. Now, get the hell out.”

You narrow your eyes and slowly straighten up, clicking your tongue, but when Gab shifts a great hairy foot your way, you turn around and stalk towards the door, flipping them off over your shoulder.

“Make that _three_ weeks!”

* * *

The fancy offices _are_ fancy. Super-duper over-the-top fancy with faux pillar siding and shiny oak doors and filled with smartly-dressed lawyers with arrogant smirks and sticks stuck way up their rich asses. The kind you really can’t imagine having anything to do with monsterkind, even as housekeepers. But, you don’t suppose they stay around long enough to really even mingle with monsters who stop by after hours to clean up the messes their self-entitled asses can’t bother to do themselves.

You would know. You had that kind of job once. You were there long enough to have your ass grabbed by the drunk, smarmy big shots with their gilded names on the floors, on the whole business, the whole shebang, until you finally had enough of it and smacked one over the head with your mop. Oh, your boss didn’t like that. Not one bit. But, really, what did they expect you to do?

Well, holding down a stable job had never been easy for you. It wasn’t just the drinking. Or the temper. Or the overall bad attitude.

Plain and simply put, it was just because you didn’t want to _be_ there.

You like your freedom. Even if it comes at the cost of being pretty damn close to having nothing.

But hey, sometimes you hit it big and land a lucky job that pays pretty well—well enough to fuel a lazy drinking binge for a good while. You still have some leftover cash on you.

Sometimes you just like having the booze better, though.

You drain the contents of the glass bottle wrapped in a brown bag and plonk it down onto the concrete as you rise from your crouch and poke your head around the corner of the alleyway diagonal to the office buildings. It’s ten after five o’clock—when six hits, when the late workers straggle their way out, the cleaners’ll make their debut. And, you hope, a certain thieving skeleton.

* * *

Papyrus isn’t one to give up.

When he wakes up that morning, he makes good on his words to Sans and sets off to find you immediately, eager to strike up that promising friendship.

But…without a name, and without much else to you aside from your surly demeanor, he doesn’t get far in his search.

He finds himself right back where you two first met—but there’s nothing helpful there. Only an alley cat slinking by and a few splats of dried blood on the gravel.

He thinks, maybe, you would show up in the same place looking for your lost knife. So, bearing that in mind, he waits. Undoubtedly, he’ll find you. He just isn’t sure how long that will take—but, he is the Great Papyrus and so long as he has a goal in mind, he won’t give up.

…But he’s allowed to take breaks.

Waiting around forever would be fine if he had all the time in the world, but he is a productive member of society who does his best to contribute and he has a job to get to—one he’s never been late to since his first day. Not even for your sake. But it does give him a heavy heart and he’s reluctant to just leave, no closer to finding you. Still, he keeps the knife in his pocket, ready to return it at a moment’s notice should he run into you on the street.

Papyrus makes it to work on record time.

“GREETINGS, Manager!” He’s full of energy and gusto, same as ever, maybe even more so at work because his group of coworkers are often cranky and generally quiet so he takes it upon himself to try and bring good cheer and positive vibes to the job.

The manager, a scruffy man with a sparse blond mustache and a bald spot on his head, a bit like a walrus, gives the skeleton monster a weary glance as he squeezes water from the mop in his hands and plops it onto the tiles. Sometimes, the energy doesn’t affect others right away—or, well, ever, in this man’s case. He takes a moment to sigh through his nostrils and blink slowly. “Papyrus. You aren’t wearing the new uniform.” He plucks at the collar of his pressed, white polo shirt with a striped blue collar and company logo embroidered onto the front. “Didn’t I say _everyone_ has to wear it from now on? Every day? You heard me, right?” The man squints a moment, taking a good, long look at the skeleton’s distinct lack of ears, and his nose crinkles. “We’re trying to have some form of…unity…here. That’s what the uniform’s for.”

“Oh, yes, of course I heard you! It encountered some…complications. I’ll have it fixed by tomorrow.” He’s upbeat in his response.

It doesn’t occur to him that perhaps the manager doesn’t like him, or his kind, or that he doesn’t want to see his spinal column exposed with those ridiculous crop tops he tends to wear, or that he’d rather not have him work there at all as the only monster in a human night crew of three, but who would speak up against those biceps and that burly chest? Not to mention he’s all too willing to work long hours into the morning, unlike the others. And he doesn’t have to pay him quite as much for it.   

Manager clears his throat and nods as he begins to mop the floor. “Right, right. Do that. Now, go help Greg. Those trash bags don’t take themselves out.”

Greg is one of said generally cranky coworkers, always looking tired, always with shadows under his eyes. Generally unpleasant to be around—but Papyrus is always willing to look for the good in people and believe they don’t intend cruelty. That and, for some people, work is just hard.

So hard, in fact, that most of it is delegated to Papyrus because he is SO strong and SO capable. Which, in this case, translates to Greg lagging behind while Papyrus carts the full, heavy rolling garbage bin down the hallways, down the elevator, and to the back door.

“Sooo, y’know, I’ve been wanting to take a few days off for a vacation lately. But Boss Man won’t let me unless someone covers my shifts. Whaddya say, pal? You got my back?” Greg doesn’t even bother to offer his help as Papyrus lifts the full garbage bin into the alley dumpster, but he doesn’t look like he’s struggling _too_ much so he doesn’t feel too bad about it.

“I would be more than happy to cover your nighttime shifts!” Papyrus agrees as he shakes the can and attempts to loosen the stubborn contents of a split bag sticking to the insides.

“Ah, but, see, it’s not just the nighttime shifts. There’s a couple of daytime ones, too.”

“Daytime?” He repeats, slightly distracted, as he jostles the can once more, brow furrowing slightly in consternation. Finally, with another strong shake, the contents tumble loose and scatter into the dumpster. He rights the can and sets it onto the rolling trolley before looking to his coworker. “I’m afraid that might conflict with my schedule.”

“Come on, really? Like, what?” Papyrus starts to roll the trashcan towards the door, and reaches for the doorknob before Greg holds out his arm and blocks the way.

“It will conflict with my other job. I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll find someone else.” He tries to sound apologetic. And he is. But right now, he wants to get back in the offices and finish cleaning so he can get back to his search for you.

Papyrus pushes the trashcan forward and a jostling kick shakes it to a stop. He takes a step back, doing his best to keep it upright, and blinks down at Greg’s foot planted against the plastic.

“Everyone else already said no. But you’ll help me out, right?” The smile on his face is sickening and almost cruel in the poor lighting.

“If I could—”

The trashcan sails backwards with rough force and Papyrus barely sidesteps it as it goes toppling over. He managed to keep his footing, but he doesn’t realize the sudden movement caused something to fall from his pocket until it clatters to the ground and snaps open.

A malicious grin morphs his coworker’s mouth as he catches sight of the silver glint on the gravel. “No way, is that a knife?” Glee shines in his eyes as he kneels down to snatch it up, examining the blade before folding it back in. “We’re not supposed to have _weapons_ on us here. What do you think the boss would say…?”

“Oh, it isn’t mine! It belongs to a friend.” Papyrus clears up the situation with ease, surprising, cheerful ease, and a smile as he holds his hand out, asking for the object.

“Sure, sure. I believe you. But he might not. Buuuut, if you help me out, I’ll help _you_ out, too, and keep this quiet. Come on. Do us both a favor, bud.”

Papyrus really wants to believe Greg isn’t a bad person. But that opinion might need a bit of reevaluation.

* * *

You planned on waiting until the end of the skeleton’s shift, when he was alone, to confront him. But by the time night falls, you get antsy. And not just because you have to use the bathroom pretty bad—stupid beer—but because you don’t know _how_ long you have to wait. Couldn’t even remember what time it was when you saw him last night. Cleaning crews could tend to run pretty late—you don’t want to be here _forever._

By now, you’ve moved to the front of the office building, loitering, lounging on one of the benches outside of its façade. No one really passes by this area, not for a few more blocks, and cops don’t patrol it, either, so you don’t have to worry.

But, shit, are you bored.

If it didn’t involve something so important, something within your reach, you wouldn’t even bother. In fact, when you thought you’d lost the knife for good, you resigned yourself to that. It wasn’t like you hadn’t pawned it off for quick cash a good few times before until your guilty conscience pushed you to go back for it.

Now, because you know where it is, you _want it back_.

“Hurry the fuck up already,” you grumble out, kicking the ground beneath your boots, scattering a few pieces of loose gravel.

It’s only when one ricochets against a nearby lamppost with a _ping_ and shatters the silence of the night that you hear muffled voices nearby.

You strain your ears. You crane your neck. When you figure the voices are coming from the alley beside the office building, you rise to your feet, give a stretch, and slink over to the alleyway if only to find some amusement.

Instead, you see some asshole holding your knife.

“HEY, sea cucumber dick. That’s _mine!_ ” The yelling hurts—when your face contorts into a scowl, it hurts, and you think you feel some dried blood cracking and maybe oozing and _fucking ouch_. But _hell_ if you care because who the hell does that guy think he is? You rush forward, hands curled into fists, feet stomping down hard with each step, and reach out to snag the weapon from the motherfucker’s grubby hands, too caught up in your tunnel vision to realize someone else is there. To notice you interrupted some kind of conversation.

But before you can grab your knife, it’s ripped from your grasp and a rough hand pushes against your shoulder, shoving you back.

“Who the hell are you? Buzz off!”

“That’s _my_ knife, jackass! Give it back!” You all but snarl it, and by then you can feel blood trickling slowly from your nose from a scabbed wound. 

The skinny guy cringes and looks suddenly uncertain when he sees the blood, because he didn’t shove you _that_ hard, and he looks to his left. It’s then you finally see it’s more than just you and the thief and you snap your head sideway to see…a buff torso. A buff, bony torso. You look up to see the familiar face of The Great Whoever-He-Is. Smiley’s brother.

“The hell? Are you trying to _sell_ my knife? I thought you wanted to give it back! What the fuck?” Your voice rises, and you don’t mean anything by it, but you can’t help it because you can’t _understand_ and you just want _your stuff back._ “I’ll put you both in the fucking trash can!”

Probably not the best thing to say. Your eyes widen when the skinny guy flips out the blade, looking far from sure, but scared, and unsettled, and you grit your teeth without thinking.

“Please calm down, Reckless Human! This is only a misunderstanding.”

“Is this the friend you mentioned?”

You reach out to try and grab the knife again—not giving a single damn that the blade is out—not until it slits your palm, that is. You flinch and draw your wounded hand back, feeling anger bubbling up and up, encouraged by the bloodshed. And you respond the only way you know how to in that kind of situation—you use your uninjured hand to throw a punch.

But it doesn’t connect with the knife thief’s face. A bony hand grips your wrist, stopping it dead, not holding on with a strong grip at all, and when you focus on that feeling, that _weird_ feeling of phalanges touching your hot skin, you finally feel some semblance of control and pull yourself together a little, realizing how hard you’d been breathing before. Realizing how freaked out the other guy looks and how he’d dropped the knife already, leaving it abandoned near his feet.

“ _Please_ calm down, Reckless Human. There’s no need for violence! My coworker and I merely had a misunderstanding. You see, he—” He’s cut off as the skinny guy shoves past him, past you, and rips open the door, disappearing behind it with a slam.

You don’t care. You jerk your arm out of the skeleton’s grasp and bend down to snatch up your knife, putting it right back where it belongs. In your hand, and all is right in your world. And you turn the blade on him.

“I don’t care. _I don’t care_. Just stay away from me. I’m not your friend. I don’t want to see your ugly face ever again, monster fuck.”

He doesn’t seem to notice how the knife trembles in your hand, or how unsteady your voice is. Or how you can’t quite look him in the eye sockets.

Your boots shift against the concrete as you take a step back. And there’s a moment, one, terrible moment, you wish you could just disappear and go back to another time before all of this, before the drinking and the fighting and the violence, but you know you can’t and it kind of hurts.

You turn to run, but freeze up when a flashlight shines into the alleyway, towards the weak glow given off by the street light, and the silhouette of a policeman blocks your way. _Shit_ , you thought they didn’t patrol this area! And like hell you plan on going to some grimy holding cell for a night for being a little drunk—you sure get into a lot of shit but you manage to keep out of jail most of the time.

So, you do the only other thing you can think to do. And in hindsight it’s rotten and it’s horrible, but you panic and can’t quite think straight.

You press your body flush against the tall skeleton’s, cringing slightly against the feeling of stark bone, and reach up to hook an arm behind his skull, bringing it down and close enough to where you don’t have to crane your neck up to such a painful degree and smash your lips against his—teeth. And, as you’d hoped, he stumbles back until his back is against a wall and he doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t react, and it’s the weirdest fucking thing you’ve ever done, kissing a skeleton, but regardless of that it puts the cop off and you can distinctly hear him grumble something about “dirty monster fuckers” before he goes on his way.

You pull away after a moment, listening, just to make sure he won’t come back, and drop back onto your heels, drawing your jacket sleeve across your mouth because there’s something warm and tingly remaining on them that you don’t want to acknowledge.

You don’t want to acknowledge the stunned monster, either.

“…The name’s Y/N. Not ‘Reckless Human.’” After ambushing him with a kiss out of the blue like that, though, you feel like you should leave a little something behind.

And then you book it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shakes head* oh, reader. you can't just go and kiss papyrus like that! you're already on sans' bad side. actions bear consequence. 
> 
> that said, i don't condone this kind of reckless behavior or selfishness in real life one bit, but you, readers, are smart enough to know this is just a work of fiction and it is a playground where anything goes.


	3. Hit-n-Run Hurricane

_Wowie._

Papyrus watches you go, blinking owlishly, and by the time you’re out of sight he’s feeling confused to an uncomfortable degree and that is quite an accomplishment because he’s always confident and in his comfort zone no matter what.

It isn’t his first kiss. Kind Clone Asgore (who he knows is named Toriel, now, but can’t quite get the nickname out of his head) and Frisk have kissed him on the cheekbones several times!

It isn’t just that he doesn’t have lips and calling it a kiss is actually a pretty far stretch, but that was definitely your intention.

It isn’t because, by doing that, you’ve made it clear you don’t want to be _friends_ —kisses like that mean possibly more. Something beyond that. But you haven’t even known each other two entire days yet. Much less gone on a date.

It’s because, again, your actions contradict your words and he’s not quite sure what to do with the information. Anyone who doesn’t want anything to do with someone they’d yelled at wouldn’t just give out their name so freely.

It means you _want_ him to know who you are. It means you really don’t want nothing to do with him at all! Such a simple conclusion, and you’d gone through such great, convoluted lengths to get there. Like…a human puzzle.

What a silly, neat human. A little rough around the edges, but he believes you mean well.

He returns to work with his thoughts on you, not even noticing how Greg clams up whenever he’s around and doesn’t mention the shift covers or the incident at all, like he’s forgotten.

But he’s also thinking of telling Sans about this new development—but, wait. Maybe…maybe Undyne would be the best one to consult at this point. Undyne and Alphys are well-versed in the matters of relationships, considering how well theirs is going. Sans isn’t the type to really discuss that type of thing, at least, never bothered to before. If he’s not too lazy to have a love life, Papyrus doesn’t know. But that sudden idea, intermingled with wonderings and ponderings about you occupy his time until midnight rolls around and he’s free to go.

First thing he does is whip out his cell phone and dial Undyne—not the greatest idea considering the time, but the fact that it’s so late doesn’t even cross his mind. He’s too eager to gossip about _you._

“Who the HELL is calling at this hour?” Her voice comes out rough and gravelly through the speakers, tinny, loud, annoyed, sleepy, for sure, and probably a little drooly, he suspects. But none of that deters him.

“UNDYNE! I have important business to discuss with you!”

“P…Papyrus?” Undyne’s voice softens, half in disbelief, half in confusion, and she gives a great yawn before continuing. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s up?”

“I think…I think I may have become involved with someone. A _human_ someone.”

“WHAT? NO WAY! Spill it, you smooth skeleton! No—wait,” she pauses, hooting out a thrilled laugh, and there’s fumbling and muffled static on the line as she presumably stumbles out of bed. “IT’S FRIDAY, NERD! Get your ass over here and tell me in person!”

“Oh—is this an impromptu sleepover invitation?” He can’t hide the giddiness in his voice. It’s been a while since they’ve had one of those, between work and other matters.

“Hell yeah! Alphys’s busy with work tomorrow so she’s at Frisk’s place, and I’m kinda bored…but now there’s a plan!” He hears a beep, and a microwave starting, and can practically hear the popcorn popping.

“IT IS A PLAN! I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He can always depend on Undyne.

When the line cuts, he immediately calls Sans to let him know where he’ll be.

He can fill his brother in on the details later.

* * *

Undyne all but ambushes him at the door in her rush to pull him into the apartment, not wasting time to even get to the couch and pick out a movie to watch or set up the popcorn bowls before firing questions at him.

“SO?! The human? What about the _human?_ ”

There’s possible budding romance in the air and she can almost _smell_ it, like a shark in bloody water and she lives for this gossipy shit, especially when her friends are involved.

“Their name is Y/N,” Papyrus begins, stepping over a dumbbell sticking out a bit precariously from a corner as he makes his way to the living room with a bounce in his step. Even though it’s been a while since he’s been to her apartment, he always knows just what kinds of particular hazards and messes to look out for. Only the piano is ever really safe.

“Y/N. Okay. _And?_ When did this _happen?_ ”

“Tonight! Only a few moments ago.”

“Okaaaay, WHAT happened?”

“They kissed me.”

“KISSED?” She’d plopped down on the couch, legs criss-crossed, getting cozy, but the moment she hears that she shoots back to her feet, scattering the pillows, and grabs her friend’s shoulders. “Already? Seriously? Just how long have you known this human, Papyrus? And why the HELL didn’t I know about ‘em until now?” A golden tooth pokes past her lips as she grins and her yellow eyes glitter.

“I met them yesterday and I’m telling you now!” He looks pretty proud about that, positively beaming, but Undyne’s grin falters just a bit.

Then it drops completely, in confusion, because something like _that_ can’t happen _that_ fast, can it? Especially when it’s a human, and a monster, and things are going pretty well with the two species mingling on the surface aside from some expected bigotry and reluctance, but—shit. It took Alphys _weeks_ to get comfortable enough to kiss her on her own and they’d known each other for a pretty long time and Alphys _was_ Alphys, but... What kind of human could just waltz up and smooch a skeleton a day after meeting them?

Undyne spins Papyrus around and sits him down on the couch while she heads to the kitchen to pick up the popcorn, and a second later, she’s sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of him with her mouth full of the stuff. “Tell me everything. ALL of it. From the beginning.”

“Certainly! I met the reckless human last night when…”

By the time the story’s over, her mouth is hanging open with half-chewed and forgotten popcorn because _what the hell._

Who the hell do you think you are, crashing into her friend’s life like that and—and—her hands shake as they rest on her knees and she slowly clenches them into fists. This is a serious matter. And part of her is torn because Papyrus looks so damn _happy_ talking about your punk ass and the prospect of having a human friend-or-more-than-friend is something that just tickles him, but you—you don’t sound like a friend at all. Friends don’t do the things you did.

She’s not stupid enough to think Papyrus doesn’t know what he’s in danger of getting into with you but sometimes he’s so damn positive and prone to believing in the good in people that he ignores the cues that say otherwise. And he’s _good_ at seeing the good in people because he believed in Frisk and he believed in her and it was thanks to him they’d all become friends, but you…

This is the human world.

There are plenty of bad humans out there. You’re not the worst, but you’re pretty damn awful.

_And you took advantage of him_.

“Papyrus.” When she speaks again, when she manages to get past the growling and the scowling, her voice is level. Commanding attention. It’s a voice she hasn’t made use of since leaving the Royal Guard behind in the Underground. Even he notices, because he sits up just a little straighter, at attention, and meets her gaze.

“It’s not alright when some human just comes up and kisses you like that. Without your permission.” The stabbing incident aside. That’s something she’s going to talk to _you_ about when she finds you because like hell she’ll just let that slide like Papyrus did. She’ll tell Sans. She’ll tell Frisk. She’ll tell Asgore. She’ll tell whoever she needs to. Even if it was an accident, even if he didn’t get hurt, you can’t just get away with that without even a lengthy lecture on human-monster conduct. Without a _fine_. But Papyrus, as soft and kindhearted as he is, would only make an excuse for you.

You have no idea what’s coming for you.

Papyrus taps at his teeth sheepishly, looking away. “I’m…aware. Don’t worry, Undyne.”

Of course he is. He may be off in his own world most of the time, marching to the beat of his own upbeat drum, still playing with action figures and listening to bedtime stories, but he’s got a level head on his shoulders when it really matters. Sometime she forgets. Sometimes she’s sure even _he_ forgets.

The tension and anger welling up in her body ease a bit.

“Y/N is extremely reckless. But I believe they are reaching out! Without realizing.”

Damn him for being such a bleeding heart. _Damn him_.

She sighs. Leans back against the crooked coffee table and crosses her arms. “Alright. …Alright. You win. What’re you gonna do, then?” She already knows the answer.

Papyrus smiles. “I am going to help Y/N.”

“’Course you are. Just be careful, Papyrus.”

The serious conversation dwindles to an end and the rest of the night passes in a blur of an anime series Alphys left in the Blu-ray player, pseudo-serious conversations about sleepover japes, and friends catching up and just being friends. (But no unsupervised cooking parties, because the last time that happened they lost the deposit on their apartment.)

Still, she can’t help but worry.

* * *

You’re stone cold sober. Shaken up by last night because _what the fuck_.

Each time you tried to uncap a bottle, to pour a shot, your hands shook. When you knocked half a fifth to the ground and lost it all among broken glass you decided to just skip the drinking that day to cut your losses.

_Why why why?_

Why in the _hell_ did you kiss that skeleton? Especially—like _that_. What kind of _asshole_ just jumps someone? Someone so…fucking nice.

You throw your hands over your face and growl in frustration, kicking at the ground and not caring who you startle with the outburst. The sun is hot on your skin, beating down on you, and you’re not inclined to uncover your face to feel that heat anytime soon. But you can’t walk around looking like an idiot, so you rake your hands through your hair and move your bangs aside, glancing along the street, at the people passing by.

Businessmen. Monsters. Schoolgirls. Monsters. Nicely-dressed female entrepreneurs. Monster schoolgirls. Monsters wearing the nearest fast food chain’s uniform.

Too many people—and monsters.

Crowds aren’t your thing. You slink into the closest through-way street and park yourself under the shade of a closed-down boutique’s striped awning. You can’t quite sit down, too antsy, too restless, arms crossing and uncrossing, legs shifting and heel bouncing.

It shouldn’t bother you. Really, it shouldn’t. Things are done. You got your knife back and you don’t have to see that skeleton—or think about him—again.

So…why are you?

It’s an awful, gritty feeling, grinding your heart like sandpaper.

You need a distraction.

You push away from the brick wall and set off at a brisk pace—when something socks you square in the back, between the shoulder blades, and sends you stumbling. Really, _really_ stumbling. You land flat on your face, right on your injured nose, and let out an undignified shriek as karma’s vengeance hits you like a hammer to the teeth. “ _What the ever-loving_ fuck?!” It’s a weak, barely threatening yell, but it’s all you can manage as sparks of pain blink yellow and red in your vision and you twist around to catch sight of just _who_ thought it would be the greatest idea in the world to run into you.

And you stop short when you see that it’s a monster. An armless, yellow—dinosaur?—dancing around, switching from left foot to right foot on the ground as it looks nervously over its shoulder, only looking your way briefly. There’s fear in its eyes—but not directed at you.

“Oh—oh man, dude, I’m—I’m, like, _so_ sorry, but—uhhh—aw, man! I gotta go!” There’s a grimace on the monster’s face, now, as they catch sight of something in the distance you can’t see and they lean forward, sneakers poised on the gravel, ready to zoom away and head-butt some other unlucky person in the spine. At least, they would, if you didn’t snag a handful of their striped shirt while you push yourself to your feet.

“No way, without even apologizing? Are you kidding?” Once you’re back up, you realize the monster is much shorter than you, and considerably innocent and youthful looking—bright and shiny, like the sun. And with that voice, they have to be a kid. But hey, you don’t discriminate when someone wrongs you and _should damn well apologize_ , so you put on your best “I’m-older-than-you-so-listen-here-kid” face.

Which goes ignored.

The monster…kid…struggles, eyes wide, white, blunt teeth bared in an exaggerated frown. “H-hey, let go! I’m serious here, I gotta go!”

Your eyes narrow, lips curled in a scowl as you whip your head in the direction they’re looking. “What in the hell could be so important—” A baseball bat whooshes through the air only inches from the tip of your nose and cracks against the brick wall behind you. The monster kid’s shirt slips through your fingers as you stand frozen, stunned, and they run a few steps forward, a safe distance away, before looking back to you, dancing from foot-to-foot again, tail shaking. And what they’re looking at—what you’re both looking at—is some grubby thug, a teenager not much younger than you, and a younger school kid dragging a crooked, rusty piece of rebar behind her.

Neither of which you feel comfortable fighting because they’re just _kids_. Violent, awful kids, but still. Nothing you can pull a knife on because you _do_ have a conscience, shitty as it is.

The teenager raises his arms, pulling the bat back for another strike, and you watch it for a stupid moment, putting two and two together, before you hear the schoolgirl with the rebar move like a match striking up and decide if you stay still you’re going to get burned.

“Go kid, GO!” you shout, diving out of the way just in time to avoid a sweeping blow and sprinting towards the monster, grabbing another handful of their shirt as a nonexistent arm eludes your grip.

Why you grabbed the monster kid…you don’t really know. But you know someone’s going to get hurt real bad if those two thugs catch up and you sure as hell don’t want to be caught up as a witness. Or a victim.

* * *

A public place—you have to find a public place. Somewhere with a lot of people, a lot of witnesses—and not just the street where pedestrians will just ignore a street chase. Somewhere no one would even _think_ to pick a fight. Definitely not a bar. But that’s really all you know in this godforsaken town and—

Suddenly, you’re not leading the way, not dragging a two-legged dinosaur behind you. The monster kid is dragging _you_ along, navigating through the alleyways and bursting out onto the street, weaving through walkers with ease—but you, you’re not so lucky, and you knock shoulders with several on the way through. Not that you give a fuck—but it’s no cake walk holding a hand over your bloody nose and trying to keep a solid hold on the kid’s striped shirt and trying not to trip over their tail.

But knocking into things gives you a new perspective. The sun is in your eyes, but when you look up to snarl at a businessman that gives you the finger, you see a sign advertising the public library.

No one in their right mind would pick a fight there.

“Hey! Monst—Kid! Left to the library!”

“Lib—yeah! Hey, nice thinking!” You see a flash of a grin before the yellow monster leads you up the stairs and between the plaster columns of the great public library.

The both of you burst through the front doors and your running pace dwindles down into soft, padding footsteps across tiles. But you don’t stop just yet—you cast a wary glance over your shoulder, scanning the sidewalk for familiar faces, and pull the monster behind the cover of a large, heavy bookcase to keep out of sight.

You’re pretty sure you lost the two thugs for good during that chase—but better safe than sorry. A heavy breath blows past your lips as you rest your hands on your knees, doubled over, exhausted. Shit, you haven’t run that hard or that fast in weeks. Your heart is pounding. Your lungs are straining. There are blisters rubbing the rough interior of your boots and you know those won’t be pretty to look at later. And your nose is still bleeding.

“The _hell_ was that even?” you snap in a congested whisper, careful not to draw the wrath of the librarian on duty. You don’t really need to draw anyone’s attention with the condition you’re in.

The monster kid, on the other hand, is still bright and cheerful despite the marathon, grinning with all of their teeth, absolutely beaming. “Yo, you really saved my skin back there! You’re pretty cool, for a human!”

You smack a hand over their mouth when they forget to use their inside voice—earning a slew of snippy shushes from the visitors—and hold a finger to your lips.

“Right, sorry, library!”

“What the hell was all that?” You cover your nose with your jacket sleeve while you speak, muffling the words.

“Oh, yeah, that…” Their face falls, and it’s like clouds briefly overtaking the sun. “I accidentally knocked that girl over at the park—I wanted to try the jungle gym!—and her brother got pretty mad…and _she_ got really mad…I mean, I’m not supposed to go places on my own, but, man, sometimes you just gotta do it! Be free! Independent! Especially ‘cause it’s the weekend. But I guess it’s not safe, sometimes…” Even when whispering, the monster kid is impossibly energetic, like a hamster spinning in its wheel. It’s almost hard to keep up, but you get the gist.

“So they were trying to fucking murder you?”

“What? No way! I don’t—dude, they wouldn’t—would they…?” The kid raises an eyebrow, looking to the ceiling and truly pondering it, before shrugging. “Anyway, thanks! You really could have gotten hurt ‘cause of me, but you still helped out. My sister would be totally upset if I came home a little beat up…”

“Yeah. A little. Whatever.”

 The monster shines you a winning grin and it doesn’t do anything to ease your irritation. If anything, it just makes it worse, because what kind of reckless—

“MK?”

You almost jump when a voice sounds behind you—a small, quiet voice, a child’s shy voice, and you turn around to see who spoke. It’s indeed a kid. One with a striped shirt and unruly brown hair and a worried expression—which is mostly aimed at you and you don’t really blame them. You’d be suspicious of you, too.

It didn’t seem possible, but the monster kid’s face brightens up even more when they spot the newcomer. “Yo! Frisk, what’s up? Meet my new buddy!”

You roll your eyes with a scoff—before it dawns on you. “Wait—‘buddy?’”

“Yeah, dude! You’re totally cool in my book after all that! Hey—what’s your name, anyway?”

You glance between them—MK and Frisk, was it?—and decide it’s only fair to give your name. But you don’t give it up without a weary sigh. “Y/N.”

Frisk nods at you—and still eyes you with concern. Or mostly probably the way you’re still covering your face. After a long moment of watching the kid watch you, you realize they’re not just eyeing you—they’re _staring._

“Oh, right—Frisk’s not all that talkative. They’re probably wondering what’s up with your face?” MK offers up.

It makes sense. You remove your sleeve-covered hand from your aching nose and look away. “Not as bad as it looks. I don’t think.”

Frisk’s eyebrows rise up as they see the mess of dried blood and instantly reach into the pocket of their shorts, digging around for something, before pulling out a bandage. They motion for you to lean down to their height and you do as asked, beyond baffled, so they can stick said bandage across your nose. And damn if they don’t look proud of themselves with a triumphant little smile plastered to their face.

 “Uh…thanks.” You reach up and touch the bandage stuck crookedly across your nose, thankful that it didn’t hurt, even if it’s pretty useless, what they did. Really, what the _fuck?_ Kids live in their own, weird little world.

The little brunette just nods, still grinning proudly. Then they tilt their head towards MK, who picks up on the silent gesture without missing a beat.

“Nah, I’m not hurt! Thanks to Y/N, here.”

They smile, and ask a few, quiet questions about what happened.

God. How did you end up here? Social hour in the library with a couple of oddball kids you’d barely met.

Fuck this sober shit. You need a tall, stiff drink. Or three.

You take that as your cue to leave and let them do their thing—but the minute you try to step around Frisk, they break off their conversation with MK and gently grasp your sleeve and gaze up at you in confusion.

“I gotta go, kids. I, uhhh—I have stuff to do. Busy adult stuff and all that.”

It isn’t like you’re getting scared off by the most normal conversation you’d participated in for the longest time—longer than you can remember, that is—or because these kids are just so damn nice it’s making you feel like you’ll fuck up the good you did that day if you stick around. It’s definitely not because they seem to _like_ having you around.

“What? You didn’t look that busy when I found you, dude.”

“I—damn, kid, wait to throw me under the bus.”

“Language,” Frisk admonishes, shaking their head, before smiling and pointing somewhere and giving another tug to your jacket sleeve.

“W-what?”

“Hey, good thinking, man! C’mon Y/N, come hang out with us today! Just, y’know, just in case those guys come back around—not that I don’t think _you_ can’t handle them, dude,” he assures Frisk with a  grin.

You eye the little brunette with a wary eye, noting that they don’t seem like anything but a wimpy kid. No _way_ could those two handle something like that on their own.

You sort of dragged yourself into this mess.

You sigh and roll your shoulders, still feeling the insistent hold on your sleeve, tiny fingers gripping tight. “…Yeah, yeah. I’ll hang out with you today. Just for a while. Just don’t be little shits about it.”

“ _Language,_ ” Frisk stresses again in that peculiar, quiet voice that reminds you a little of grass rustling in the wind.

“ _Sorry._ ” Shit, no one ragged on you about your bad language since you were fifteen. And never did a little kid do it. Really put things in an unwelcome perspective.

“hey, frisk, thought i lost ya—”

A familiar, lazy drawl hits your ears as a familiar, lazy skeleton in a blue hoodie rounds the corner and stops short when his eyes meet yours and like lightning you’re struck with a twistedly satisfied and smug feeling—but it fades just as fast and you’re left feeling guilty remembering a certain other skeleton.

You avert your gaze in the form of an eyeroll and shrug your shoulders. “Well, well. Look who it is. What’s up, short stack?”

It’s painfully obvious how much he hates you when you give a shit-eating grin and you can just _tell_ the constant smile on his face would warp down into a scowl if he had the choice.

He’s about to reply, and you’re ready to shoot off your mouth, when a man with glasses slipping down his nose and a heavy stack of books balanced in his arms pokes his head around the corner and hisses. “Shhh! This is the library, not a social club! Go outside to talk!”

Frisk, the perceptive little peace-keeping angel, drags you away before you can start a scene.

* * *

Thanks to the energetic, talkative (really, the kid doesn’t know when to shut up, but it fills the awkward silence, so you can’t hold it against them) MK, you learn the short skeleton’s name is Sans.

…And he’s fucking _awful_ to be around when you’re sober.

The puns. God, the _puns._ You’re sure the headache pounding in your skull isn’t from the heat of the sun or the chattering of passing people.

They don’t stop until Frisk and MK spot an ice cream vendor on the sidewalk and race to the line, leaving the two of you behind and tension crackles through the air like lightning ready to burst.

You have the audacity to smile, shoving your hands deep in your pockets and feeling for the handle of your knife. Not that you think he’ll try anything—but old habits die hard.

“you’re just a bad penny, aren’t ya, kid?” The little lights in his eye sockets glower. The loose change he didn’t give the kids rattles in his pockets as his hands come to rest on them, mirroring your pose.  

“Not my fault I’m a monster magnet.”

“…thanks for helping MK out.”

You physically jump. Startle. Whip your head toward him, jaw slack. “Don’t—what the hell—don’t _thank_ me like I did it for that kid. I just—did it, okay? Don’t fucking thank me.”

“i won’t make a habit of it, don’t worry. i’m sure you’ll fuck up again.”

“Ouch. True, but ouch.”

“did you find my brother?”

Your mouth goes dry, fingers still against the casing of your knife. He doesn’t know—probably best to keep it that way. Because you certainly did fuck up there.

“…Nope.”

“you really wanna go with that answer?”

Oh, he _knows_. He’s playing with your head, now, trying to throw you off your game. You would fly off the handle if you were marinating in booze—he’s lucky you’re not.

“I…I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You high or something?”

 “…i’m giving you a chance, against my better judgment. do the right thing, y/n. you’re not totally incapable of it.”

“I _said_ , what the fuck are you talking about?” Your voice rises, almost into a shout, and you quickly glance over your shoulder to make sure the kids aren’t around. Because Frisk would just…scold you. In that gentle way—like a parent. But they’re still waiting in line, bouncing on their heels and grinning with MK.

Your eyes dart back to the skeleton, and he’s watching you steadily with his face fixed in that creepy, permanent smile, eyes still flickering little lights. Like fireflies stuck in his skull.

* * *

If this was a different time—if he’d run into you even a _second_ before he heard MK gush over how fearless and awesome you were (the kid was easily impressed by people like that, really, but a good judge of character, too) for helping him out a jam, or if Frisk didn’t seem so damn attached to you, this conversation would be totally different.

Dramatically different.

And maybe not much of a conversation at all.

Because Undyne was quick to text him that morning asking around about you and what you’d done—and he never replied to anything as fast as he did then because when your name comes up he’s learned it’s cause for alarm. Because he isn’t stupid. Sans knows Papyrus tells Undyne things he won’t tell him, like a confidant—that’s how friends work. He also knows Undyne won’t hide important information if she thinks he’s in trouble. Or if she’s being overprotective and there isn’t a day that goes by that he doesn’t believe she’s anything but Papyrus’ honorary older sister in this patchwork family they’ve cobbled together.

And he doesn’t _understand_. Because you were so gung-ho about cutting ties with his brother after you got what you want—and what Undyne said you did just…diametrically opposes that.

What’s worse is that you’re playing the idiot. Like he doesn’t know.

He wants to understand, he really _does_. Because if you were as fucking awful as he’d judged you to be up to this point, you never would have helped a monster kid escape harm. You might just be decent, somewhere under all that cold, drunk hardness. A fucked up human who is trying—maybe without realizing it, but trying nonetheless.

If you really are looking to be Papyrus’ friend, you’re going about it all the wrong ways.

You fidget—no, you tremble. He knows that body language, from so many others who fear monsters here on the surface. You’re scared—and maybe that makes sense, here, because you also look sober and don’t have that terrible alcohol stench about you like usual. But not scared of him, per se; he knows you think he’s a joke.

Just what are you scared of?

You blink. Several times, eyelashes flickering. Lips parting, almost into a snarl, almost into a grimace, trying to say something that just won’t come out right.

So you just spit it out.

“Okay—o-fucking- _kay._ ” You throw your head back and run your hands through your hair, stomping a foot on the ground. Still careful to keep your voice down so the kids don’t hear the swears, because you’re strangely soft on them. Like a decent person should be, and he really doesn’t know what to think anymore. “Look, Smiles—Sans—”

He’s momentarily shocked by you actually using his name, but his face doesn’t show it.

 “—I didn’t _mean_ it, okay? I’m stupid and I don’t think and I make _mistakes_. I fucked up! I…that guy…your bro… I was a fucking douchebag to him for no goddamn good reason and if I could take it back I would. Just—just keep him away from me.”

“…so you’re running away. you’re not taking any responsibility for this?”

“Are you dumb? I’m taking responsibility by staying the fuck away.”

“treating him like a hit-and-run is the worst you could do.”

Your eyes narrow. Your hands clench into fists and one shifts to the pocket where your knife hides and he tenses, but then you sigh and cross your arms. “What do you want me to _do_ , then?”

“just talk to him. tell him what you told me. he’s not going to give up on you unless you give him a clear reason to.”

“That’s stupid. Why can’t I just pass through like Hurricane Hit-and-Run and let him forget about me? I don’t owe him—sure as hell don’t owe you. I’m an asshole but I’m a nobody. Not that hard to forget.”

“oh, trust me. he won’t forget what you did.”

“I—fine. _Fine_. I’ll talk to him. But I’m not waiting around or going looking. Gimme your phone.” You hold out a hand, and he eyes it a moment before he complies. You don’t waste your time typing in your contact info, and that’s all you do, quick as lightning, before shoving the device back into his hands. “Tell him to call me if you’re so dead-set on this. Otherwise leave me the hell alone.”

You turn your back to him and take a few cautious, moody steps away, before freezing and looking to the kids who are ordering ice cream at the window. It’s clear you aren’t going to wait around for them—but for a moment, he thinks you might. “…And tell the kids I said ‘see you around.’”

And then, you’re gone. Running away.

Sans looks down at the lit-up screen blaring your phone number and a crude insult in all-caps where your name should be.

Maybe he doesn’t have to hate you. But he sure as hell doesn’t have to like you, either.


	4. I'm Trying, Okay? Part I

Almost a full week passes by before you hear from a certain skeleton.

By then, you’d sunk back into your normal routine of late-night bar-hopping and morning hangovers and a few new aches and pains—so you’re not happy at all when your phone beeps and vibrates next to your ear when you have your head buried in pillows just to keep the headache at bay.

But you grope blindly for the phone anyway and lift your head up with a scowl to glare at the bright screen and the strange number that texted you.

 

 

It isn’t so strange anymore. Especially when no one else new would be texting you besides a monster. You’re not exactly popular.

 

 

Your eyes are bleeding just reading the messages—does he not know how to kill the caps? Jeez. But when the actual content of the text sinks in, you feel your heart drop to your stomach and that’s a pretty fucking strange feeling when you’re sprawled out across your mattress and not even standing up yet. You sit up and press a hand to your aching temple, using the other to type out a lackluster response so he doesn’t keep shooting them at you.

 

 

You flip to his contact information and quickly tap in a name so he doesn’t show up as a random number. The text screen is headed by ‘Stupidly Nice Guy’ now, mixed in among the other names and pleading messages you pointedly ignore.

  

 

 

For one heart-stopping second, you think he’s really going to call you. And you’re not ready for that. Talking through texts is one thing, but actually having a civil conversation over the phone? Nah. No way. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

If he’d tried to call first, you probably would have hung up.

You push yourself off your bed and reach for the half-empty bottle of water and aspirin sitting on your windowsill, knocking a couple back. It’ll do while you wake up and prepare to go soak in the bath and wash away the rest of this awful pain.

But phones and bathtubs don’t mix so you put it off for a little while and look out the window instead, pushing down a couple of the grimy blinds to get a look at the birds sitting on the telephone wires outside.

Really, it’s a surprise the guy even contacted you at all. When you left the choice to Sans, literally leaving it in his hands, you didn’t think he’d go through with it. Even after all of his preaching about responsibility. And you were sort of hoping he didn’t.

If it had been you, you would have run the bad guy outta town—keep them as far away from your sibling as possible, because you don’t believe in people. Don’t trust people. Not like…not like he obviously does. Because he’s willing to put aside his grudge and—what was it? Do the right thing?

But that’s the difference between you and them. They are… _good._

You realize you left your phone on the bed and quickly snatch it up when it chirps out a few feeble beeps. The screen is cracked, you notice, and you don’t remember when that happened. Last time you checked, it was in one piece. 

 

  

What the hell is this—is the world ending? First that monster kid and quiet Frisk kid ask you to hang out, then…then this. 

This is the longest text conversation you’d had in…forever.

 

 

  _Whatever. See ya._  

After sending your response, you stare at the screen. Wait for a reply—he seems like the type to keep a conversation going on and on even after goodbyes are said and done.

But no more messages come.

It’s…weird. That gritty feeling in your heart—because someone _cares_. It reminds you of better times. Times you don’t want to think about—times you want to forget.

It seems all you want to do is forget, lately.

You can’t quite remember how you ended up that way.

But you do remember the feeling’s not something you _want_. The only reason you’re going to meet him is to tell him what you need to tell him. You don’t know—don’t care—what he wants to talk about. You just have to make it clear that your business is done and he has to forget about you.

Because he’s too _good_ for you. And nothing good happens around you. Not for long, anyway.

* * *

It is absolutely _baking_ outside. Heatwave squiggles snake up from the ground and the simmering concrete almost burns through the soles of your sneakers with each quick step you take, all the beginning of an early summer. You skipped the dirty boots and jacket today—settled for a plain t-shirt and jeans and the grungy pair of hi-tops that once carried you through high school. The metal clip of your knife is cool against your hip where it sits between your skin and your waistband—the only cool thing out in this weather, but you don’t expect that to last much longer.

The Irish coffee you downed that morning at a passing pub does nothing to cool you—in fact, if you expected the weather to be such shit, you would have forgone the alcohol altogether.

But this won’t take you very long. Your plan is to say your piece before the skeleguy can get a word in edgewise, and then bounce. Back to the shade—back indoors, back to air conditioning.

Back to your sad little life in peace.

Sad as it is, it’s still yours. Having these monsters march in and upset everything is just…too much.

You stop at the edge of the sidewalk, knowing if you look up and ahead you’ll be able to see the park where Papyrus wants to meet.

It isn’t too late to turn back—it isn’t too late to duck into the bar across the street, somewhere more your speed. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere to hide.

Your hands twist in the pockets of your jeans, fingers brushing the cracked screen of your phone as you contemplate texting the skeleton that you have other plans instead of just flat out ditching him—but the moment you grab it and pull it out of your pocket, a jolt runs through your wrist as it vibrates and an incoming message pings and it’s all you can do to keep from dropping it and busting it up even more.

 

 

“Shit…” A grimace pulls at your lips as your head lolls back in defeat, knowing you should have just turned tail and gotten out of sight instead of thinking on it so much.

With a pained expression, you glance across the street and search for a tall skeletal figure, knowing he can’t be too far if he spotted you. And lo and behold, there he is—waving cheerily when he catches your eye and—you know you aren’t the only one staring.

He’s wearing the most _ridiculous_ outfit. The backwards baseball cap is normal enough—but that’s where normal stops. From top down, he’s a disaster. A total fashion wreck. Basketball biceps and a loose-hanging midriff tank that screams COOL DUDE in all-caps and it’s so befitting of his image it just…pisses you off. Basketball shorts and tube socks aside.

No. No way. No no _no._ You might not give that much of a shit about fashion aside from a simple and clean-cut image but god _damn_ if you’re going to be seen in public talking to…to… _that!_

You ignore the texts popping up on your screen.

Fuck it.

Just fuck it.

Fuck him and his brother.

You’re catching the next bus out of town and—

The minute you turn around and try to round the corner and just _disappear_ , you bump into something blocking your way. You click your tongue and try to swerve around whoever the fuck is in your way, but an arm shoots out and slams against the building beside you and you know this isn’t just a random run-in. 

This is real. This is some serious shit.

“Hey. Y/N, right? Sorry, I know it’s rude as hell, but I was reading over your shoulder.”

A mouth full of golden-yellow shark teeth grins at you and—if not for the way that single, matching eye is leering down at you, you would think it was pretty damn badass. And heart-stoppingly terrifying.

Oh, and the thing blocking your way? An arm. A buff, blue-skinned arm with dangerously rippling muscles and seriously mean claws curled against the bricks, chipping off a few flakes of mortar and leaving shallow, jagged ridges behind.

Your heart stops dead.

“Where are you going, huh, punk? I’ve been waitin’ a long time to meet _you_.”

You almost choke when the arm catches you around the neck in a less-than-amiable way and—yeah. You fucked up. You don’t know who this monster is, but the bright red of her hair is promising bloodshed. There’s murder written all across her face and you know she’s seen some serious shit because she has an eyepatch—what kind of idiot would you be to mess with someone with an _eyepatch?_

It’s time to meet your maker—and like some sick, cosmic joke, your maker is a tall, blue-skinned fish-woman-monster that smells just a little like sushi.

And she’s probably going to turn _you_ into sushi.

“Y’know, I never get tired of that might-have-shit-my-pants look on you humans. But you look like you know why I’m here—good.  Listen up, punk—and listen good,” her voice lowers into a dangerous growl, but the violent glee on her face never wavers. The muscles in her arm tense ever-so-slightly as she drags you a little closer, close enough to see the scaly sheen of her skin sweating in the sunlight.

“If you _ever_ hurt someone I care about—accident or not—and specifically I’m talking about a guy named _Papyrus_ —you’re dead meat.” She draws a single claw from a webbed hand across her throat to drive her point home and you don’t need to ask her to repeat that.

“It won’t…be a problem…” is all you can manage to reply through gritted teeth.

The animosity evaporates. She lets go of your neck and pats your shoulder roughly, knocking you forward, just as said skeleton rounds the corner and beams at the both of you, giddy and gleeful as ever and damn is it a welcome sight for once.

“Hey, Pap! Speak of the devil! Y/N here was just saying how they couldn’t wait to see you!” The dangerous scowl from before is replaced by a goofy, shit-eating smile. 

“UNDYNE! I see you have met Y/N! Aren’t they neat?”

The hand on your shoulder tightens a bit, enough that the claws poke through your shirt in warning.

“They sure are _something_.”

When she removes her hand, a heavy weight is lifted—not just physically. The shroud of doom hanging over you vanishes. And it’s replaced by a bony, gloved hand grabbing your arm and tugging your forward.

“Follow me, Y/N, you don’t want to be late to the party!”

“What _party!?_ ” You spit out, suddenly preferring doom and death to wherever the hell this stubborn skeleton was taking you. You try to dig your heels into the sidewalk, but he’s walking way too fast to stop. If you tried, he’d probably end up dragging you along behind him like a ragdoll. “You didn’t say anything about a fucking _party!_ ”

It’s then you actually stop and look at the park—at the multicolored balloons tied up along the wrought-iron perimeter fence and the bright red bounce-house and the large crowd crammed into the area.

Oh god. It’s a _birthday_ party.

“W-what the hell? I thought—just—wait!” You reach up and grab the arm pulling you along, stubbornly refusing to walk—and quickly chance a glance over your shoulder for a blue-skinned redhead set on murdering you—before whipping your head back around to glare at the skeleton as he comes to a stop outside of the park’s entrance (wrapped in all kinds of gaudy ribbons and shiny aluminum balloons and displaying a corny, cheerful sign that reads “HAPPY 10TH BIRTHDAY, FRISK!” In big, bubbly letters).

You’re nauseous.

Papyrus notices the change in your behavior when you clap your free hand across your mouth and try to pull back, shaking your head. “No. N-O. I’m not going in there.”

_Why_ the hell is it so hard trying to get away from these monsters?

How do you somehow keep getting roped into these situations?

You pull your arm again and this time, he lets go. You cross your arms defensively, taking a step back as he turns to look at you and you can’t quite meet his gaze, staring instead at one of the basketball sleeves on his shoulder.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

“Of course not! This is no joke, Y/N.”

“You asked me to meet _you_ at the park. Not—what the hell is this _party_ business?”

Papyrus only smiles—well, you’re not sure he has any other expression, really. Just like his bro. At least this guy’s mouth actually moves when he talks, though.

“Why can’t you just _stop?_ I don’t want to be fucked with—just step _off_ , guy. I—I fucked up the other day. I didn’t mean it. But I _mean_ it when I say—”

A familiar brunette kid ambles up and shoots a toothy grin at you.

* * *

Frisk doesn’t know you all that well—only met you once, in fact. But they know your type. They recognize something in you.

They can see the _good_ in you, that you try so hard to stuff down beneath all that hard meanness.

They know someone a lot like you, really.

…They also know you probably can’t resist the sight of a cute kid decked out in a bow tie and polka-dot cardboard birthday crown flooded with ribbons and glitter.

Sure enough, your conversation with Papyrus grinds to a halt as your attention shifts completely to their outfit. Your eyes almost bug out. The distressed, angry expression on your face melts away and your lips just faintly twitch as you try to hold back a laugh. But it’s in your eyes—something soft. A sudden spark of joy.

* * *

“H-hey kid. Happy birthday.”  You rub the back of your neck and glance skyward, towards the clouds above. “I, uh, didn’t exactly bring you anything.”

“No worries, Y/N!” Papyrus cuts in. “Your presence alone is a gift! And if that isn’t enough, you could always give a birthday piggy-back ride. Not nearly as fun as a monster-back ride, but I’m sure Frisk will happily accept the alternative!”

Frisk grins and nods and the next thing you know, Papyrus lifts the child into the air and settles them firmly onto your shoulders. You almost aren’t prepared for the sudden weight dropped onto you and you stagger—but quickly right yourself and grab onto the child’s legs to steady them, leaning slightly forward under the burden. God, your legs are shaking—are you really _that_ weak? The kid isn’t exactly small, though…

“…This is humiliating. You sure as hell better enjoy this while it lasts, Frisk.”

“Language,” they respond, crossing their arms over the top of your head and breathing out a quiet giggle. You see a hand stretch out above your head, pointing towards the park, and silently oblige, carrying your passenger forward.

You only hesitate a moment before you pass through the gate and blend in with the crowd.

* * *

Papyrus watches the two of you disappear before setting his hands on his hips in satisfaction. Masterfully done! He admits it might be just a bit underhanded on his part, inviting you out to an event like this without actually mentioning what it entails, but he didn’t _not_ say there wouldn’t be a party involved, now did he…?

The idea struck him when Frisk mentioned they’d run into you earlier that week.

And, really, is there a better way to bring you into his wonderful world full of joy than inviting you to the young monster ambassador’s birthday celebration full of socializing and fun?

He doesn’t want to toot his own horn, but you are already looking a little brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise update! 
> 
> Recent changes:  
> 1) I think I'll start writing shorter chapters so I can update more frequently and on that note thank you readers for being patient! Having said that, there will probably be more than 10 chapters now but the overall story length I have planned will remain the same. 
> 
> 2) i'm trying out adding images to fics, so let's see how it goes...? it might throw all the text off and it might end up being a giant headache but i hope not. it looked fine in the preview but let me know if mobile/regular layout looks weird please?? (also the time isn't supposed to be 3AM but it was a lot funnier when i left it like that and it was too much of a headache to backtrack and screenshot (and the number is fake, btw)) **EDIT: All images have been re-hosted and should work now!**
> 
> thanks so much for reading!


	5. I’m Trying, Okay? Part II

There are way too many people here. Waaay too many. You don’t mind it so much when you’re drinking in a dark, dingy bar, sitting away from most of the crowd and minding your business until someone gets up in yours, but—this? You’re in way over your head.

But…you only realize it a few minutes later, when it really sinks in (and when you’re a little too far from the exit to escape, never mind carrying Frisk), that…there aren’t really _actual_ people present. It’s monsters. Pretty much all monsters, save for a few humans you could count on one hand, including Frisk and yourself.

A lot of happy, smiling monsters

“Yo, Frisk! Oh—Y/N, too? No way, dude, I’m glad you made it!”

MK unsteadily barrels their way through the crowd and stares up at you and Frisk with a bright grin—also sporting one of those cone-shaped party hats decorated with colorful frill. It hangs precariously on their head, beside their spikes, and you have the urge to straighten it before it falls off, but you hold onto Frisk’s legs instead because you’d rather have a crooked hat than a dropped kid.

“Y-yeah. Hi.”

“Anyway, Frisk, when are we gonna cut the cake? It looks totally delicious and I’m getting’ kinda hungry, y’know? My sister said I should just wait, but—what do you wanna do?”

Frisk hums quietly, and you glance overhead to see them holding a hand to their chin, seriously giving it some thought Then, they smile and look across the crowd for something. “Tell Mom!” When they spot her, they point and glance down at you with a smile, fully expecting you to understand.

“Right. Sure. I’ll take you to your mom, whatever.” You wonder who their mom is; what kind of family has such strong ties with so many monsters.

It strikes you for a second, and you have to stop and wonder, but—no? Frisk is human. Not a monster.

Right?

The thought sticks in your head anyway, and now you have a yellow monster tagging along, too.

None of these monsters are shy. And Frisk—Frisk is just a giant monster magnet. Every one you pass by greets the child—and you, much to your horror—enthusiastically, even though they had to have already seen them a dozen times before. You ignore them, sweat dripping down the side of your face, lips set in a rigid, unfriendly smile, and keep walking in the direction your passenger is pointing, unable to see the goal yourself over the heads of the taller, looming guests.

“Oh, Frisk, there you are! I had wondered where you’d gotten to.” A kind voice floats through the crowd and finally, when they part and step aside, you’re met with the sight of a tall, fluffy cow—no, goat?— monster with a sweet smile. And large paws. And a bright, flower-print sundress. And a damn cute straw sun hat. Definitely one of the most unique you’d seen in a while. But you probably wouldn’t pay her any mind if she wasn’t staring straight at you—and the one on your shoulders.

“Hey, Miss T! Frisk’s got a question for ya!”

The goat woman’s patient smile wavers, twitches at the edges, and she sends MK a stern look as they hop from foot to foot in front of her. “Now, now, Monster Kid, have I not told you to use my full name? I know we are not in class at the moment, but I really would prefer…” The irritation vanishes and she cuts off her own lecture, simply shaking her head and returning her attention to you and Frisk.

You’re too preoccupied by the fact that MK’s full name is ‘Monster Kid’ to really care, and you shoot the kid a look to confirm it, having half a mind to ask before Frisk scrambles off of your shoulders like a monkey and hops to the ground like it’s nothing, immediately racing toward ‘Miss T.’

“Mom, Mom! Can we cut the cake?” They bounce on their heels as they ask, hands balled into fists near their chest, grinning wide, and you only notice their hat is skewed when the furry white monster bends down to straighten it with a fond smile.

“Patience, my child! There is still much to do.”

You blink. Then it hits you. _Wait—_ _M_ _om?!_

“Th- _that’s_ Frisk’s mom?” you hiss at Monster Kid, snagging the loose sleeve of their striped T-shirt as they try to wander away to the nearby refreshment table that hosts the (holy shit huge) fancy birthday cake.

The kid turns to you with a weird look. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Miss T—uh, Miss Toriel—is Frisk’s mom. Duh, dude.” Yeah, like it was so obvious. You roll your eyes and let the kid go as they were, watching as they toddle away, tail swishing back and forth. Little brat probably plans on sneaking a swipe of the cake frosting. Or a lick. Something gross that kids do.

“And who might you be? I do not believe we’ve met.”

Great, now the spotlight’s back on you. Your shoulders tense as you set your hands in your pockets and shrug. “No one, really.”

Toriel rises to her full height—taller than you, but not as tall as some of the other attending monsters but damn if it ain’t intimidating as hell—and gives you a quick once over, judging you, eyes guarded, and it’s nothing you’re not used to, but the way she does it makes it clear without a doubt that she’s a mother looking out for her child, trying to protect them from riff raff.

“Y/N’s a friend!” Frisk pipes up, one hand grasping onto the long skirt of Toriel’s sundress. They beam up at you, completely approving one-hundred-percent, and upon seeing that, Toriel abandons her uncertainty and her expression brightens.

“Oh, you are the Y/N Frisk spoke of! Thank you so much for helping Monster Kid the other day. Thank you for coming here today as well. How very nice to meet you.”

Oh, god. The kid told their parents about you. The tops of your ears burn and you take a step back, eyes shifting, looking for an escape, any escape, a distraction, because you didn’t sign up for this—is that another goat monster wearing a Hawaiian-print button-up tourist shirt? What a shmuck! But he’s abso-fucking-lutely huge (and you thought Gab was huge) and looks like he could kick your ass, so you don’t even crack a grin at that strange sight and not to mention he’s having an animated discussion with a monster that looks a lot like a whole lot of fire standing beside a large grill (is he part of the grill?) full of hot dogs—

Shit. What kind of weird and wacky world did you step into?

You nearly jump out of your skin when a fuzzy paw pops up in your peripheral vision and you snap your head back to Frisk and Toriel, heart hammering in your chest. She stares at you, eyebrows scrunching together curiously, but the kind smile remains on her face. It takes you a moment to realize she wants to shake your hand.

“Yeah. Sure.” You reach out and grasp her hand, her warm, soft hand, and give it a firm shake before immediately letting go.

“I can tell you are not used to our kind. Please don’t be afraid, we don’t bite. Everyone here is quite pleasant to be around.”

You expect Frisk to nod—only, when you look down, the child is nowhere to be seen. They totally ditched you.

_Thanks a lot, kid._

You have half a mind to run away, too.

And you get just the opportunity when Toriel briefly glances away, distracted by a passing monster. “Oh, please excuse me. There is something I must attend to. Enjoy yourself, Y/N.” After sending you another polite smile and waving goodbye, she vanishes in the crowd as well, leaving you alone in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

It’s the perfect time to get the hell out.

But you’re not a total dumbfuck. You can’t just shove monsters out of your way. Or even tell them to move the fuck out of your way. It’s like a minefield trying to get through the crowd.

After shimmying between bodies where you can, you find yourself at a decorated table filled with gaudy, colorfully-wrapped boxes and lumpy packages as well as unwrapped offerings. There’s a bundle of bones wrapped in a bright, obnoxious blue bow crammed in among the packages, a bottle of ketchup, and a potted plant basking in the sun. Normal...enough.

No one else seems to be hovering around, so you take a moment to stop and regroup, leaning heavily against the table and covering your face with your hands, dragging them down and scowling at the sweat smeared on your palms. You sigh and dry them on your jeans.

“I don’t belong here…”

“That’s right, you don’t. So leave.”

“ _What?_ ” You heard it, you’re sure you did, someone spoke—but when you turn, you’re still the only one around.

“ _Move it_.”

Again, you turn, and again, you see no one. You check underneath the table, lifting the ruffled yellow tablecloth with your shoe. Nope. Nothing under there.

No one is paying you any mind, either.

Maybe you’re finally losing it. Maybe you shouldn’t have been drinking that morning—or maybe you just needed something stronger.

“Can you even hear me? I said _move_. You’re blocking my sun.”

Something smacks into your back and you whirl around to see…a flower?

The potted plant you saw before is now turned toward you, and in the center of its yellow petals is a glaring face.

“What the fuck.” It’s all you can say. Still, you don’t move, even though you see the shadow you’re casting over the…plant? It doesn’t occur to you it may be a monster. It’s just…not computing. Not even as you watch its face shift into a sickeningly sweet, condescending smile, all teeth.

Yeah. You definitely need a drink right about now.

“You must be stupid. So I’ll say it again, as nice as I can. You. Are. Blocking. My. Sunlight. Idiot.”

And you thought _you_ had anger issues.

Not knowing what to say, still floored by the strange encounter, you step to the side and let the flower-monster continue basking, watching as the rays brighten up its yellow petals and grumpy face.

“Thank you.” The flower doesn’t sound all that grateful, and the words are forced, spoken through gritted teeth, like it really doesn’t want to say them at all.

The atmosphere is tense as hell, but you don’t really feel like returning to the crowd. You continue leaning against the table, only occasionally glancing at the flower from the corner of your eye as it goes about its sunbathing and largely seems to forget you even exist.

“You’re still here?” A beady eye squints at you. The flower watches you sidelong, frowning.

“…The hell’s your damage, asshole?” Talking to a rude flower with such rough language clashes violently with your expectations, seems totally inappropriate, but this flower isn’t a normal flower. It’s kind of a jerk and you’re just trying to mind your own business.

For a moment, it’s taken aback by your response. Then the glare returns. “Why don’t you go somewhere else? Go _talk_ to everyone.”

“No.”

At this, the flower seems to puff up, offended. “Get out of here!”

“If you wanna be alone, this is the wrong place. Everyone’s gonna come watch Frisk open their presents eventually. Why don’t _you_ leave?” Well you’re fucking offended, too. Just who does this flower think it is?

The flower stares at you like you’re an idiot, a complete buffoon, and you’re fully aware it’s stuck in a dirt-filled clay pot, but you’re starting to get annoyed and don’t care.

A brief flicker of uncertainty passes through its expression, and then resentment, and then it looks resigned as it rolls its eyes and turns away from you. You think it’s ignoring you until it speaks up again.

“…Can you take me somewhere else?”

“No. I already played chauffeur to someone today. I don’t even know you, Sunflower.”

“You humans just love doing things the hard way, don’t you? My name is _Flowey_ ,” it stresses, and you know it’s a response to the nickname you’d oh-so-lovingly chosen. “And you, stupid one?”

Gosh, this plant certainly knows how to butter people up when it wants something.

“…Y/N. You monsters sure are creative with your names,” you say dryly, thinking back to Monster Kid.

Flowey ignores you and continues on sweetly. “There. Now we know each other. Niceties are out of the way. Can I kindly ask you the favor of moving me from this spot?”

Holy. Shit. The attitude is downright nasty. You’re not at all enamored with its entitlement and over-sarcastic attitude (awful enough to match yours) but god damn does it have balls. You’re a little impressed.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever. Things are already fucking weird enough as it is.” You shrug before grabbing up the clay pot and hoisting it up against your chest, arms wrapped firmly around it as you look around for a new location. Flowey’s petals—the back of its head?—bop up against your nose and you scrunch it up as a faint, floral aroma assaults you.

You have half a mind to just drop it on the ground.

* * *

Papyrus lost sight of you long ago. But that’s fine—it’s perfectly alright.

This is step one to his “Great and Amazing Plan of Helping the Confusing Y/N,” nyeh heh heh!

Namely, getting you acquainted with all of _his_ friends so your friendship will run that much smoother. You’ve already met Sans, and Undyne, and Frisk and Monster Kid—it’s a wonderful start. And you already fit in so well!

He is proud.

He’s also hungry. Not that he needs to eat. But it’s nice to keep up appearances in the human world.

A trip to the grill is in order.

* * *

“hey pap.” Sans saunters up to his brother, hands in his pockets, grinning as always but noticeably troubled. “looks like y/n is actually hanging around. did you talk yet?” Of course it’s the first thing he brings up, because he wants nothing more than to get it over with and put you in the past where you belong.

“Not at all!” Despite the hotdog plate and plastic cup he’s juggling in his hands, Papyrus is quick to answer, and bright and cheery as ever.

“oh.” He wants to say more, but shrugs it off. “i’m a little surprised you’re here early, by the way. did you take the day off? come to think of it, you were home early last night, too.”

“No need to worry, Sans! I have been given a ‘pink slip!’”

“a—wait, what?”

“I am no longer needed at my place of employment. Which is strange, because Manager did like to complain about being short-staffed. That doesn’t mean what I assumed it meant, it seems.”

“papyrus, you got _fired?_ why? what happened?”

“I’m not sure. Apparently there was a complaint. I unsettled my coworker. But! No need to fear—I still have the delivery job. And I will find another! There are plenty.”

This isn’t good—not good at all. It’s not a coincidence—can’t be, right? This has _you_ written all over it, because bad things have happened one after the other since you came out of the woodwork.

Well…he knows he can’t blame you for _everything_. But he’ll take what he can get.

“Did Y/N—”

“Oh, there’s Y/N now! Y/N! Are you having fun? Did you—Wowie, you made a new friend?”

Sans turns to where his brother is looking—and waving wildly—and sees you through a hole in the crowd sitting on a bench beside a…very…familiar…flowerpot.

“….shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah--cough--yeah, I meant to post this sooner but I kinda forgot and then my computer went kaput for a while. Things are good now though and I didn't lose any writing or anything important, just busy trying to get used to a new OS and programs. 
> 
> So, yeah. I love the Floweypot au thing and the idea of Flowey and reader interacting is just too good to pass up. 
> 
> The next update should be the last of this birthday party arc, then things start to heat up. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and/or commenting! Really appreciate the feedback.


	6. Couldn't Do It

“Ugh, I think I’m allergic to your pollen,” you gripe at the flower hovering in front of you, scrunching up your stuffy nose. “Can I put you down now?”

“No. I’m still looking.”

“What—looking? I thought I was supposed to move you, like, five fucking feet! Into the shade or something. Not haul you around like your personal cab driver, Sunflower.”

“Quit calling me that, stupid.”

“…I’m putting you down here. Right here. On this bench. Bye!” You give a fake smile as you plop the heavy planter onto the nearest bench and flick your fingers in a sarcastic wave before turning on your heel to stomp off.

“Wait—!” Something pulls at the edge of your shirt and you stop and turn to see one of Flowey’s leaves pinching at the fabric to keep you from going, almost struggling from the effort. You could ignore it. You don’t have to deal with this, this—flower shit. But when you look at its face, it’s a familiar mix of pathetic and lonely and resentful that strikes a weird chord in your heart and you end up sitting down on the bench, too.

“…I’m just takin’ a break. My feet hurt.” It’s a poor lie, but Flowey doesn’t seem to care and doesn’t say anything. You both sit in silence for a moment, watching the monsters mingle. Far enough away that it doesn’t bother you—and when you stop and look, there aren’t as many as you first thought. It’s a small park, after all.

It kind of reminds you of the one you used to visit when you were little, with…

You shake your head a little and scoff out a laugh. “I’ve never had this many people at one of my birthday parties.”

“What are you, a loser?”

“What—are you trying to tell me this is _normal?_ ”

“Of _course_ it is, oh-friendless-one. In fact, when I used to have parties, there were even _more_.” The flower _preens_. It actually puffs up with pride, and if it had hands, you were sure they would be on its hips. But it’s a flower and doesn’t have hands or hips. Just...leaves. And a stem.

“Uh, no offense, but that doesn’t sound very convincing.”

“Only because your brain is too small to comprehend it.”

“You’re a little brat. You really think you’re hot shit, huh, like some royal—”

“I was a prince, once.”

“Oh….huh.” That comes out of left field. Whether it’s true or not—it’s some Beauty and the Beast shit, right there. You just hope you aren’t supposed to be Beauty 'cause you're not about to fall for any damn flower-beasts anytime soon. “Am I supposed to be impressed or something?”

Flowey rolls its— _his_ eyes and decides to promptly ignore your presence. But not for long.

“I used to be rich,” you offer, pursing your lips. 

“You don’t look it. Or smell it.”

You take a casual sniff of your shirt and scrunch your nose at the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and booze and bar junk. Not even deodorant could hide that. “Not all of us can smell like a goddamn _flower_.”

“Certainly not you.”

You lean back against the bench and cross your legs. “I’m loving this quality time. Real heart-warming.”

“…How do you know Frisk?” he asks. 

“Don’t, really. More like they’re a friend of a friend. Who’s not…really a friend, either.” You don’t really know how else to put it, but it’s the truth. “What about you? And why don’t you have someone else carrying you around?”

“So I’ve chosen to put my faith in a complete stranger? And that’s none of your business.”

“We’re not complete strangers. We know each other’s names.”

He sends you an absolutely withering look that you respond to with a sunny smile.

In a strange turn of events, Flowey turns out to be pretty talkative. In a sort of sad, lonely way. Like they’re not quite sure what to say so they hide it with sarcasm and spite, like a bitter old grandpa (could be, for all you know). You’re pretty sure that attitude’s driven off plenty of other people before, so maybe Flowey’s grateful you stayed around and is tolerating you despite your own prickly personality.

You’re just glad something about this horrible party turned out to be sort of decent.

Maybe it isn’t…so bad. It’s not so hard to relax, now.

“You didn’t say how you knew Frisk—”

“Y/N! OVER HERE, Y/N! I SEE YOU HAVE MADE A NEW FRIEND!”

A voice that’s become ingrained on your brain shouts over your question and you zero in on its source only to see Papyrus and his brother approaching, one flailing his arms in an exaggerated wave and the other with his hands in his pockets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Ugh, not that Smiley Trashbag—”

“Great, he brought Smiles—”

You both catch each other’s eyes and stop speaking, trying to process the fact that you’d both spoken in the same disgusted tone and possibly feel equal amounts of disdain towards said smiling skeleton, but before the potential, blossoming friendship based on dislike and talking shit (the best kind) can be explored, the brothers arrive.

“didn’t think you were the social kind, asriel. turning over a new _leaf?_ ”

“Asriel—? You said your name was Flowey.”

“It is. _Please_ don’t call me that. Ever.” Again, the forced niceness. His petals flutter, almost straining from the effort to be civil as he narrows his eyes at Sans and you wonder just what the history between all these monsters is like.

Or maybe it was just the shitty pun’s fault.

“He very much prefers to be called Flowey, Y/N! Something Sans should consider in the future.” Papyrus shoots a stern look at Sans, and if you blinked you were sure you’d miss it and you almost don’t believe it because he doesn’t seem the type to chide anyone like that, hands on his hips, shaking a finger, almost like a mother, and for a second you wonder which one of them is older.

Sans only shrugs.

You wave a hand irately. “I don’t really care. And he’s not a friend. I’m just bored. In fact—I’m leaving. Right now.”

Papyrus looks like he’s about to pick up Flowey’s pot, but the moment you rise to your feet, he’s at your side, pleading. “Y/N, if you leave now, you’ll miss MTT’s live performance!”

“ _M_ -what now?” You square your shoulders and lean away, because he’s getting up in your space, and you shoot Sans a glare because he’s not doing anything to stop this and you’re kind of blaming him for this entire situation since he couldn’t just let things be.

“MTT—Mettaton! Our beloved, home-grown television superstar straight from the Underground! He is taking time off of his nation-wide tour to perform especially for Frisk’s birthday. Would you want to miss that?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Oh I KNEW you’d want to stay!”

“No, shit, wait— _sarcasm_ —” Too late. He grabs your hand— _hand?! Really?—_ and steps away, ready to pull you along, already filling you in on MTT’s rise to fame on the surface, but as he’s chattering and you’re trying to speak over him, a shout erupts amid the crowd.

Glass shatters.

The stink of chemicals and something burning hits your nose.

Smoke and fire.

You want to run. Fight or flight—you’re wired to flee when you’re not the one who wants to fight. And so you’d leave them all behind at the first sign of danger, at the first _mildly_ inconvenient event—

Just as you take a step backwards, foot sliding against the grass, a clay pot is shoved into your hands and hits your chest roughly, and for once, running away is actually the right thing to do—but you can’t.

Papyrus and Sans are no longer in your sight. The crowd is around you, pushing, knocking shoulders, and it takes all you have to wrap your arms around Flowey’s pot to keep a firm grip. The crowd parts—just enough for you to see the edges of the party gift table in flames, cheap table cloth melting, paper burning, crackling, smoke coiling into the air and all you can think about is what would happen if you’d never stopped by that table and left Flowey there, what if no one got to him in time, what if what if what if.

Someone’s yelling—close, not just the fleeing crowd—and a leaf smacks your face.

You blink, staring down at Flowey, at his frantic, wild-eyed yelling as he strains to reach you, and you wonder if he’ll try to pull his roots up from the dirt and run away himself.

“A-Asr—I, I mean, Flowey! There you are! I-I’m so glad I found you, a-and—who—who are you? N-no, that doesn’t matter now, j-just go! Get going!” Two small, clawed hands push at your back and spur you into moving, and the hands remain at your back as you merge with the evacuating crowd and make it safely across the street just as the build up of wailing sirens reveals a firetruck speeding to the scene.

Monsters and people are everywhere, displaced partygoers and interested spectators alike. It isn’t much of a thing to see—the fire is doused and wrangled in seconds and only steam and a ruined party is left behind. The birthday banner displaying Frisk’s name is ripped, hanging in tatters, torn down in the escape, and a crumpled party hat rolls down the street.

There’s a claw holding fast to the hem of your T-shirt and a friend (?) in your hands, but nothing else is familiar.

You only notice your phone is buzzing when the monster at your side speaks up, taking a moment to pause her own conversation and look up at you through her thick glasses, fogged from the sweat and heat rising from her dry, scaly skin thanks to the panic.

“Your phone is—u-um, y-you’re Y/N, aren’t you? Undyne says Papyrus said you’re holding Flowey, s-so...”

“Yeah.” The reply is automatic. You’re numb, too caught up in how this happened, why this happened, _who_ would do this.

“E-everyone is fine and accounted for.” She returns to her phone call and her hand slowly unwinds from your shirt as she hangs up. “W-well then, we should probably go and join the others. M-my name is Alphys, by the way. Um, do you—do you want to follow me?”

Petals smack your face when Flowey turns his head and it snaps you back to reality when the urge to sneeze seizes you. “God dammit, Flowey.”

“Y-Y/N! That language—not around As—Flowey, It’s inappropriate! Not to mention Miss Toriel and Asgore would disapprove...”

“Shit, sorry—I mean—Sorry. I guess.”

Flowey says nothing—clams up, in fact, it seems. Ever since the yellow lizard monster arrived he hasn’t said a word but you don’t find that strange because there’s too much else whirling through your head.

You feel guilty—but not over such a small slip-up. It’s just a small thing, really, just a mistake, because maybe this flower’s a kid after all, too, and you were so fucking rude to him, especially after all this—and Frisk, Frisk’s party is ruined thanks to the asshole who started this, and...and…

Bad things happen when that many people gather.

Bad things happen when you hang around.

You push Flowey’s pot into Alphys’ arms and move towards an opening in the crowd, just to get away, just to—

“W-wait!”

But you don’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the abrupt conclusion to the party fiasco! Lots of things are going on in their worlds (along with just a hint of reader's past?).
> 
> I have two more chapters written up already so the next couple of updates should pop up relatively quickly. Also, guess who gets to play Undertale all over again because their save data got decimated when their computer messed up?? (Spoiler alert: it's me)
> 
> As always, thanks eternally for reading and commenting, leaving kudos, etc! Y'all are dolls.


	7. Ups and Downs

The phone buzzes on the tabletop nonstop, until it drops to the floor. Until the battery dies. You don’t care—you don’t need it. Not really. It goes uncharged all night, all afternoon—until the next day.

And the next.

It doesn't matter.

You didn’t leave the apartment at all.

It doesn’t matter.

Last night you drank until you puked. Finished off your stash.

You don’t have any more alcohol stocked up. You finished off the last of your dried noodles and quick-foods the day of the party. There’s a little cash left in your wallet, but...you don’t really want to go anywhere.

Everything kind of hurts. Everything kind of doesn’t feel at all.

There’s the sense that you fucked up, some way, somehow, but logically—fuck logic, it isn’t working.

Going to that party was a mistake. You should have stayed away from monsters—should have ignored Papyrus and all of Sans’ taunting.

Should have left Monster Kid to be chased and beaten up.

Should have ignored Frisk in their cute hat and birthday bowtie.

Should have left like Flowey said.

You don’t know when you threw your arm over your damp eyes because you don’t remember sleeping, can’t even remember getting a moment of rest. When you move it aside and let it fall on the mattress, your fingernails graze the side of an empty glass bottle with a light, airy tinkle. You push it off the bed and hear it hit ground with a _thunk_. Really, you expected it to shatter but you forgot about the rug on the floor.

There’s a knock on the door. Loud and official—a knock you’ve heard before. Usually not meant for you, though.

Still, you ignore it.

You hear it again. A little more urgent, followed by a faint swear muffled by the door.

There’s a little scuffling, fingers running along the top of the doorway, the edges of the door frame, the mail slot—then the scratching of a key on wood. Not really necessary. You don’t remember locking your door. The person on the other side realizes that when the lock doesn’t give resistance and the door opens inward with a creak.

“Dammit, Y/N.”

“Don’t you need a warrant?” you drawl out, keeping your eyes forward, staring at a nasty yellowed patch on the ceiling above you. Whoever lived in this shithole before you was definitely a smoker.

“It’s only half official business. We’ll get to that later. You look like shit—weren't you supposed to get cleaned up? Maybe get some help, get a steady job...” A crinkling paper bag drops onto the table, and two hollow thunks follow—probably drinks.

“Never promised it.”

“Here I thought I wasn’t telling your mom a bald-faced lie when I told her you were doing fine.”

“Never told you to do that.”

“Look.” Firm, sure footsteps approach the bed and you can just make out the uniformed figure looming up beside you. Vaguely registered the stern, disappointed expression in your peripherals. Coffee in hand already, this early in the day. Or was it noon? Past noon. Fuck if you knew. “I only came by because a missing persons report was filed on you by, uhh, an extremely distraught monster. Every hour. On the hour. Until the 24-hour mark passed. I didn’t know you even _knew_ any.”

A grimace pulls at your face.

“I mean, I was going to call you in later in the week on a separate—and concerning—matter, but...” She clears her throat. “You look like shit. First things first, let’s get some breakfast in you.”

“Fuck off.”

Not the right answer. Strong arms grab you and haul you up to your feet and you wobble slightly before you’re steadied, then ushered along into the bathroom. “Get cleaned up. Change your clothes—they’re filthy.”

The door closes behind you before you can flip her off.

When you’re done—face washed, hair checked for dried puke, with at least a fresh T-shirt pulled on because it’s all you can handle now even though a bath would be great—you think maybe it would be a good idea to just go back to your room and crash. Because the sight that greets you in the shitty little kitchen is...actually a sweet dream. A nice breakfast, made up of donuts and breakfast burritos and orange juice cartons and—as you thought, coffee—and all you can do is swear because it looks like a heaven you don’t deserve.

Why the fuck do nice people just not get the hint?

All of that’s wasted on you. _All_ of it.

“Stop. I know what you’re thinking. It’s on me, really. Just shut up and eat.”

“I didn’t even _say—_ ”

“Uh-uh. Just eat.”

You didn’t realize how hungry you are until you start eating—and can’t stop, even when your stomach starts hurting.

She just drinks her coffee and finishes off two apple fritters while watching you scarf the rest down like some slob, but it doesn't seem to faze her.

She doesn’t even so much as blink her half-lidded, unimpressed eyes when you scramble up and lean over the garbage can to hurl.

And then meekly go back to drinking the rest of your orange juice.

It’s pity, really. Probably. Otherwise she’d have no reason to be so nice to you. To care.

It isn't like you’re friends, or ever were. No, not with you.

She’s just a friend of the family and, by extension, she associates with you.

Why? Because she’s too soft. Because, sometimes, you find a little extra money lying around that you can’t recall picking up on your own. Because, no matter how broke you get, you never get an eviction notice or late payment notice from your landlord.

She doesn’t turn a blind eye your way when you fuck up, though. More than once she’s made sure you spent a night in jail for reckless drinking and fighting.

Not quite like an older sister. Not quite like a mom.

Just some dumbass who doesn't know what’s good for her.

“You were at the ambassador’s party Friday, right? That monster mentioned it.”

“Ambassador?” You wrinkle your nose at the fancy title. “I was at some kid’s birthday party.”

Her jaw drops just before she sips her coffee. Then she slams it back on the table. “Y/N, are you an _idiot?_ You don’t know who the goddamn Monster Ambassador is? Watch the news for god’s sake!”

“I don’t have a TV.” Your foot bumps something on the floor—your dead phone. You lean down to pick it up and wipe some dust from its screen, pushing the power button a few times before remembering it’s dead.

“Oh, well—it _is_ a kid. That kid. Frisk Dreemurr. The one who came out of Mount Eb—do you _really_ not know?”

“I just don’t really care, Nina.” The charger cable is around somewhere. You move to your feet and scan the kitchen before finding it plugged into one of the sockets above the short counter top.

She gives a deep, world-weary sigh, shaking her head and running a hand through her bangs. “Alright. That aside, you were there for the fire. You know it wasn’t natural? It was attempted arson according to the department of monster affairs. Two molotov cocktails were thrown from a passing car—a hit and run. Did you see anything? Do you have any idea about who would try this?”

You shrug. “Maybe two kids with baseball bats who like to chase monster kids?”

“No. But I’m looking into those, too. They had alibis. Even if they didn’t, it’s not like many humans like to cooperate...”

“If I do find anything out I’ll be sure to kick the fuckers’ asses.”

Nina jumps to her feet. “No—Y/N, you can’t. _Don’t do that._ I won’t hesitate to lock your ass up if you try any vigilantism. The proper authorities will handle it.”

“Just kidding.” Sort of. Running around chasing criminals like a vigilante sounds like a cool hobby, now that you think of it.

Seeing you’re still turned away, refusing to face her, she relaxes with a frown and slowly gathers up the trash covering the table.

“...What happened to your job?”

“Got fired.”

Another sigh.

“Y/N, you can’t keep this up. You have to...move on. They’re both—”

You slam your hands on the counter to drown out her words and you’re tired, so goddamn tired.

“ _Get out._ ”

The trash finds its way into the trashcan with more force than necessary. Firm footsteps stomp to the door, the door is yanked open, and the steps stop. “I’ll have another job opportunity lined up for you soon. Don’t ignore my text. Go to it. ...Please.”

The door slams shut.

* * *

You stare down at your phone, at the dozens of notifications popping up since the party incident—never had it blown up so much before. Ever.

A good deal of them are from Nina. Ten from a number you don’t know. Ten more from a number you won’t answer. Two from Sans. But most of them from Papyrus.

_Fifty_ from Papyrus.

“...Shit.”

Why do you feel like you have to say something to him…?

* * *

Papyrus would really like to know you’re doing alright. Or just to hear from you in general. But  no replies came to any of his messages and, frankly, no one knows where you are. It isn’t that it’s odd—it’s happened before. Before he invited you to the party. But after something so dangerous happened… If he knew where you lived he wouldn’t waste a moment going to check in on you.

But the authorities are apparently unable to freely hand out such information so all he can do is wait. And put you on the back burner until you come out of hiding. Because he has to move forward and this isn’t a failure in his plan; only an intermission.

And part of moving forward is rescheduling Frisk’s botched birthday party to a small family get-together-slash-dinner-party at his and his brother’s house.

Why a dinner party, exactly…? So he can cook SPAGHETTI.

Magnificent, magnificent spaghetti. The forger of the greatest friendships.

“FRISK, HAVE YOU EVER SEEN SO MANY DIFFERENT TYPES OF SPAGHETTI BEFORE?!”

The pasta isle of the grocery store is absolute heaven. A wheat-rolled Shangri-la. Every time he visits he’s always left amazed and in awe—and he finds something new every time.

Frisk, of course, is well aware of how mundane dehydrated pasta is in its commercially sealed plastic bags, but their friend’s joy is contagious and the last thing the kid wants to do is burst his bubble. “It is amazing.”

It isn’t a response full of childlike cheer—Papyrus notices that. Frisk hasn’t been the same since the party. Frisk hasn’t been allowed to go wandering alone outside since then, either. It isn’t the first time humanity has shown disgust and dislike towards monsterkind and their ambassador—but the first time something so openly violent nearly put them into a perilous situation.

The department of monster affairs claims they will handle it—that outside action isn’t required. Because they know monsters deserve as much comfort and security within the city as anyone else. But it is also a small task force met with several obstacles.

Some still believe monsters should be sealed away, run off to Mount Ebott again.

Some are more sympathetic to changing times and believe they belong here as rightfully as humans do.

Some just don’t care either way.

Undyne has told him as much after long, hard days of work that rarely bring home good news.

He isn’t stupid (a little hurt, but not stupid). He fully understands he was laid off from his nighttime job thanks to Greg’s encounter with you. Possibly because he also didn’t agree to cover Greg’s work shift. Monsters are hanging on the low rung and if they pose even the slightest inconvenience or threat, never mind if it’s true, humans would rather cut them loose and have nothing to do with their business.

Sans says the same. Often.

He knows Frisk is all too aware of all of this as well, but sometimes it’s hard to keep up a smiling face. So it’s his job, as their friend, to uplift their spirits.

Literally and figuratively.

He swoops Frisk up and sets the child on his scarf-wrapped shoulders and points a gloved hand at the noodles on the highest shelf. “Frisk! Please do me the honor of selecting that high-quality pasta that I can’t quite reach!”

Frisk wobbles for a moment before steadying—never afraid they’ll fall, never afraid Papyrus would drop them—and looks up at the noodles that the skeleton can most definitely reach. A soft smile spreads across their lips. They clamber overhead and grab three—no, four—wrapped bags and drop them into the awaiting shopping cart before hopping back down into the cart’s seat.

“Tomato sauce next?”

“And then GYM SOCKS?”

Frisk holds up their hands and shakes their head wildly ‘no.’

He’s only half-joking, really.

He wheels the cart around and prepares to find the sauce isle, but a familiar figure blocking the way stops him short.

“Y/N!”

* * *

Shopping is the worst thing in the world.

Not only because it costs money, but because it just...it’s so boring. Routine. _Normal._

It reminds you of a place you’ve once been but left behind.

You don’t miss it—you don’t miss the glaring florescent lights or the peppy elevator music or the shoppers. Especially not the check-out clerks. Or the high, hard-to-reach items.

Or the lack of booze because “this is a family establishment and the liquor store is a couple of blocks that way.”

You don’t need much. A pack of water bottles, some quick-foods, maybe some basic toiletries here and there. It’s a quick in-and-out trip.

At least, you hoped it would be.

The last thing you expected to run into when you went out that afternoon, when you took a turn into the pasta isle, was—well, Papyrus.

And it’s stupid—so, _so_ fucking dumb because you never considered you could run into him even though you damn well know you both live in this town.

Like always, you want to run.

But you don’t.

Because Frisk absolutely beams at you and it almost blinds you like the sun—more than these damn bright lights—and waves enthusiastically from their seat in the shopping cart.

And Papyrus—he moves fast. He closes the distance between you and spreads his arms, but stops short when you take a quick, sharp step back, knocking into the snack display stand behind you.

His hand reaches over you and steadies the display before it can fall and you're not quite sure if he’d been planning to hug you or what but you don’t—you can’t. He looks so damn happy and relieved and he’s _smiling_ and something drags down your heart and starts to close up your throat.

_Stupid stupid stupid._

“Hey.” It’s all you can say.

It’s...not _bad_ to see them.

Papyrus drops his hands to your shoulders. “IT IS SO GREAT TO SEE YOU, Y/N!”

“Yeah, man… My phone died.” You don’t need to tell him that, because he didn’t ask. You don’t need to tell him you let the battery run out. You don’t really need to say anything—but you feel like maybe you should. Just say _something._

“Oh? Then you didn’t get my message—we’ve scheduled Frisk’s make-up birthday party and you are more than welcome to attend. It’s tonight! At Sans’ and my house! In fact, we are shopping for the birthday dinner now! Will you help us?”

Shit.

You glance down at the water bottles and saltine crackers in the basket hanging from your hand. All you did was come to this isle for instant noodles—why did this have to happen?

Each time, you’re less and less inclined to say no. They’ve all become...familiar.

But, really. They’re better off without you.

“Y/N.” Frisk’s call pulls you from your thoughts and you look up to see them still smiling. “Please?”

_Shit._

How the hell are you supposed to distance yourself when that kid doesn’t know how to quit being so damn adorable?

“Fine. Just for a little while.”

You don’t expect them to buy enough groceries to feed a family of whales.

* * *

It’s a good thing Papyrus is with you and Frisk—rather, it’s mostly his fault there are so many damn groceries. There’s no way they need this much food. _No way._ Unless they plan on making furniture out of spaghetti and breadsticks.

But he’s carrying most of them—without even breaking a sweat. Frisk is dutifully carrying two bags stuffed with bread and you’re balancing your own shopping bags and a heavy one filled with tomatoes. There’s also a bag full of tomato sauce cans—and another with glass containers of pre-mixed spaghetti sauce.

Sans is absolutely _overjoyed_ to see all of you waltz into the skeleton home.

He’s surprised to see you—you catch it in the way his eyes turn to you and how his expression dims and he sighs silently before turning around and shrugging. No surprise he’s still not fond of you—and that’s an understatement. But you can’t complain because the feeling’s mutual.

So you can’t resist taking a shot at him when you see his house slippers. “Nice shoes. Cute. _So fitting,_ ” you snark under your breath, and he doesn’t get a chance to reply aside from shooting a squint your way because Frisk zooms out of the kitchen and grabs up his bony hands, pointing to a big bag of party supplies on the couch—probably left over from the park. You spot a second birthday banner poking out of the bag, hand-written in bright crayons. A few balloons already litter the floor.

“Do you even know how to make spaghetti?” you ask Papyrus as you make your way to the kitchen, where he’s already unpacking everything in a haphazard pile.

“DO I? It is my number-one specialty dish, Y/N.” He sets his hands on his hips, puffed up with pride, and it’s then you notice the chef’s hat perched atop his skull. He rubs his chin as he looks down at you. “If you’d like, you are more than welcome to take notes on my normally-top-secret recipe while we cook!”

“Wait—‘we?’ Hold the f—hold on—” No holding on. He throws you a spare, frilly pink cooking apron and it lands over your face before you scramble to remove it and stare down at it in dismay.

This is probably about the time you should admit that you can’t cook for shit.

...But seeing how he throws an entire armful of tomatoes into a pot of yet-to-boil water, stems and all, you think maybe you’re not _so_ terrible.

* * *

Things have taken a better turn than Papyrus could ever imagine. This was the absolute _best_ time to run into you! An amendment to his Plan for the better. Because now he can share his famous **Friendship Spaghetti** with you.

It’s foolproof.

He can tell just how excited you are to start cooking by the way you look at the apron in your hands with wide eyes before you toss it on the table and roll up your sleeves.

* * *

You don’t know what you’re doing.

And neither does he—it’s painfully clear. But he’s so damn passionate that you’d believe he was a pro. Even with tomato sauce splattering half the kitchen, including both of your clothes—just his apron, really.

Should have worn the apron after all.

“This time it will be done even better! What is the saying you humans often use…? ‘The third time is the charm?’”

“I _hope_ so.” You’re on the verge of just suggesting—rather, _demanding—_ to make use of the pre-made spaghetti sauce in jars because this is way too much fucking trouble.

But...you can’t bring yourself to. The guy looks so damn _pleased_ with how things are going you just—you can’t. You can’t be an asshole. Even though you’re so covered with tomato guts you feel like you could turn into one.

...and all of this shit has really made you hungry.

You rub the back of your hand across your itchy nose and close your eyes, steeling yourself for another cooking catastrophe that you could probably do better drunk.

No wonder Frisk got outta here so soon.

Speaking of—a quick glance to the living room reveals Sans struggling to hang up a paper-chain streamer while Frisk holds the end.

Everyone loves the kid (you included).

But...they _are_ the monster ambassador—right?

“Hey, Papyrus—” Is this the first time you’ve said his name? It feels like it. The name’s awkward on your tongue. You turn to look up at him, and the second you do, something soft swipes your face. You blink—reel back, swat the thing away and dart your eyes between the damp towel in his hand and his face. “What the fuck?” A guilty glance towards Frisk and you almost hold back the swear but don’t quite make it in time.

“There was sauce on your face, Y/N. I am only trying to help!”

“Oh...” You press the back of your hand to your nose again.

“Were you going to ask something?” He keeps up a pleasant face as he sets the towel down and goes back to stirring the abomination sauce.

“Forget it.” You rub the back of your neck.

“Then, Y/N, may I ask you something?”

You fidget with the tools on the counter and adjust the pile of dried spaghetti that has yet to be cooked. There’s too much—you know that even without being a seasoned chef. It really shouldn’t be rolling onto the floor and crunching beneath your feet.

“Shoot.”

He lowers his voice so the others can’t hear. “Why did you kiss me?” It isn’t an urgent question. It’s curious. Honest. Innocent. Would have passed as small talk if not for the fact that it makes you feel pretty damn crappy.

“...I don’t know.”

He moves closer.

“Would you, perhaps, like to go on a date?’

“WHAT?!”

Something crashes in the living room in time with the ladle that slips out of your hands and cracks against the tile.

Blood rushes in your ears and your skin is hot and you have to curl your hands into fists to keep them from shaking. How he can ask that with such a straight face, such a bright expression, is beyond you. He’s messing with you—totally fucking with you, right?

But before you can ask, or answer, he’s already in the living room checking on his brother. With the way both he and Frisk hover around the guy, you can’t help but think they’re similar.

* * *

Somehow, a presentable dinner—maybe not the tastiest, but it looks normal anyway—manages to come together. And just in time. Guests begin to arrive as soon as evening hits.

“if I were you, i’d change into something else.” Sans mentions it as you pass him by and you stop to look at him, to glare, because he knows damn well there’s nothing else you can wear, and you follow his line of sight to see Frisk’s goat mom enter the living room with a pie twice as big as any you’d ever seen in her hands. His gaze lingers a moment on the woman before flicking your way. “frisk has a spare bedroom here. second door on the left. their clothes should fit.”

“Wow. Thanks,” you reply dryly, not _entirely_ sarcastic because for once he made himself useful.

But when you find the room, you take back whatever usefulness you might have given him.

All of Frisk’s clothes are _striped._

But he’s right. Your shirt is a mess. Not party appropriate. Not that you really care. But Frisk might.

A little more digging through a drawer results in a slightly-larger plain blue-and-white-striped shirt that still fits a little too snug for your tastes but it works well enough.

It smells...clean. Like laundry detergent. Like care and home and—not just a dash of cheap soap and water and whatever would get the dirt out. When you bother to clean your stuff at all.

When you go back to the living room, another goat monster (the huge, buff one you saw at the party, wearing a tourist shirt yet again) is present, and Flowey’s pot is in his hands.

His eyes flick towards you for a moment before he turns his petals away and frowns. Not that you expect a hello or anything after ditching him and the yellow lizard the other day.

Who arrives a second later, arm-in-arm with the blue-skinned hardass who threatened you. She—when no one else is looking—shoots you a glare, all teeth, and draws a finger across her throat in warning.

Each guest brought a food offering, so there’s more food than anyone really needs. And way too much spaghetti.

A whole tabletop full of it in the kitchen, actually.

It’s not a huge group, but it’s definitely a crowd in the brothers’ home.

And with all of them so cozy and acquainted you stick out like a sore thumb. A big, swollen, bruised sore thumb. The blue kid’s shirt doesn’t help.

It’s clear by the way they all smile and chatter that they’re a family. A close-knit one. If you look closer, you can just make out how the big goat monsters are the strong, responsible mom and gentle-and-laid-back-but-strong-when-he-needs-to-be dad. Frisk and Flowey are the kids, one broody and one the golden child. Papyrus and Undyne are the reliable, loud, energetic older siblings, and Sans and Alphys are the lazy and nervous, high-strung uncle and aunt respectively.

That leaves you—the guest. The only actual guest present.

Not that it means you should go—even if you want to. Sans didn’t kick you out when he could have. Papyrus wouldn’t even think of it.

Not that it means you _can_ go, crammed on the couch between Frisk and Undyne who just _won’t_ _keep still_ during a dramatic retelling of one of her past—jobs? As head of the Royal Guard. Whatever that is. Food flies from her mouth as she jabbers on and you’re pretty sure there’s already dried tomato sauce in your hair so what does a little more added to it matter.

Everyone talks a little—just by listening, you learn the big one (Asgore) is a former king-turned-school-gardener, Toriel is ex-queen grade-school teacher extraordinaire, Alphys and Sans intern at the local university’s science department and Undyne heads the monster division of the government’s department of monster affairs.

Everyone has a job worth talking about except Papyrus—who you avoid looking at the entire time.

You don’t really blame him, considering he seems to take on a lot of odd jobs, but at same time you wonder why he doesn’t have one on par with the rest of them. Not that he looks like he minds. If he does, he makes up for it with enthusiasm.

“And you, Y/N? What is it that you do?” Toriel asks, shifting the conversation—and everyone’s attention—to you.

Oh, god.

It hits you. Fucking duh. Why else would they be talking about jobs and shit when they already know each other? _It’s for your benefit, dumbass._ You aren’t even eating, so you don’t have the excuse of cramming a forkful of overseasoned pasta in your mouth.

_Fuck, fuck fuck—_ what can you even say, put on the spot like that?

“I’m kinda between jobs now. Uh—the last one was at a bar. Sorta security detail stuff.”

“Oh? Not at Grillby’s lounge?”

“N-nah, not that one. The Rusty Hinge. The one run by Mim and Gab.”

“Oh, Gab! His daughter is in my class.”

Not bad. Nice save. And not even a lie.

“Are you from around here?” Asgore asks next and—shit. They’re gonna grill you. “I’m sorry if that seems like prying. I only ask because you are remarkably well-adjusted around us.”

_Around monsters._

“Kinda. I was born in a town like an hour that way but I’ve been between here and there for a while.” You scratch at a small tear in your jeans and wisely avoid commenting on the implication about their kind.

“With your family?” Toriel’s up again and you’d never pin them as the Group Parents harder than at that moment. She speaks between elegantly twirling squishy strands of spaghetti on a fork and taking prim bites that don’t even leave a speck of sauce to stain her pure white fur.

She’s a force to be reckoned with.

But...that’s not something you can answer.

“I—uh...sort of.” Sweat beads on your back, trickling down uncomfortably.

“How ‘bout you tell us all how you met Papyrus?” Undyne asks, all teeth, and it’s a clear jab because you’re trying to clam up and get all evasive and she knows it and she has a grudge against you but you really can’t blame her.

“I can’t answer all this on an empty stomach. Be right back.”

You stumble into the kitchen and breathe for what seems like the first time in ten years—the conversation aged you that much. Just another grand reason to add socializing to your list of “do not”s.

There’s still crunchy, dried spaghetti on the floor, kicked under the table and to the sides of the room, underneath cabinets, stuck to the rug, caught between tiles...if you were feeling generous, you’d offer to help clean it up after the party. But right now you’re just looking for a back door to sneak out of.

Or a trash can to puke into.

You cover your face with your hands and just take a moment to chill, calm down, thankful that everyone is crammed together in the living room and the kitchen is free of any other nosy, prying monsters—

“Y/N?”

“Shit.”

Papyrus is right in front of you when you drop your hands away from your face and open your eyes and you involuntarily take a step back, knocking into the table behind you, just to put some distance between you.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your face is awfully red.”

“It’s just tomato sauce.” You scrub at your cheek with the back of your hand, still unable to look him in the eye. “Actually—I kinda feel like shit. Think I’m gonna head out soon.”

“So soon? But! You haven’t even eaten yet, Y/N! The spaghetti is a delicious gift to the taste buds of monsters and humans alike, I assure you! Because the recipe we followed is,” metaphorical drum roll, “...my special FRIENDSHIP spaghetti recipe.”

“Uh...” Your eyebrows scrunch up and your hands curl loosely into fists as you rock slightly on your heels, debating whether you should just make a break for the front door and book it. God. Why is it so hard to just _leave_? He’s so persistent—so….annoying.

Papyrus turns his back to you, heading to the cabinets for a plate, and you see your golden opportunity to run right there—but he’s too quick. You nearly bump into him when your conflicting paths cross and he only smiles down at you briefly before returning to the table and plopping a whole mess of pasta onto the awaiting plate, complete with a too-large fork that’s probably meant for salads. And then he holds it out to you, presenting it, proud, confident, almost _challenging_ and you almost _almost_ feel bad for standing there like an idiot and not taking the plate. Especially when his bright mood dims when he realizes you have no intention of eating the food you prepared together.

But his mood is renewed like a sparking flame when he gets the idea to twirl some spaghetti strands from the plate into the fork and hold it out to you instead. “It is delicious, Y/N. I promise! It must be, after the work we put into its creation. Food is best when made with love and care—and fire magic, but that is another matter Miss Toriel is the expert on. But I digress. Y/N! Say ‘Ah.’” There’s almost a challenge in his words.

Like _hell_ you’re going to just stand there and let him _feed you_.

You snatch the fork from his hand and shove the portion into your mouth with a scowl, chewing fast because you’re sure it _can’t_ possibly taste anything less than a muddy wreck of tasteless, squashed tomatoes and over-salted noodles with no garlic whatsoever and—before you could stop him he threw it in— _chocolate pudding._

And it’s…

It’s…

“...Actually not bad,” you choke out after gulping the huge bite down, running your hand across your mouth to clear away excess sauce because you’re not a total slob.

A positively over-pleased beam spreads across his face as he clutches his hands in front of his chest, eye sockets creased in glee. “I ACCEPT YOUR APPROVAL, Y/N!”

Before you can say anything else, he’s already gone, returned to the living room and chattering animatedly to Frisk and Undyne and you’re left feeling like you’d been hit by a whirlwind, a little disoriented, a little hungry, and confused as fuck.

Not to mention you see something shift in the corner of your eye and look across the room to see your favorite flower sitting on the window sill across from the kitchen counter (and there’s a thoughtfully-provided plate piled high with spaghetti beside him but it looks untouched because...flowers don’t eat that).

“...Gross,” is all he says before turning his petals away from you in a huff and it hits you he was present for that entire debacle, but you’re not even embarrassed. You’re just a little shocked. And you’re smiling. Just a little.

Maybe staying a little while longer won’t be so bad.

* * *

Party time is over when Frisk falls asleep, apparently.

Toriel gently cradles the kid in her big, fluffy, motherly arms and the look on her face is unmistakable. If you doubted this was the child’s mother before, you’re certain of it now. There’s just a way a parent looks at their kid. Even if they aren’t connected by blood.

Everyone (even Undyne) speaks quietly to avoid waking Frisk and—it’s touching. Heartwarming.

You get swept up in the calm, tired atmosphere, too, and can’t even bring yourself to snark at Sans and his lovely pink house slippers again. Or to really say much of anything at all while everyone says their goodbyes. So you watch.

Asgore brings Flowey from the kitchen, clay pot held securely in his large paws—and if you hadn’t met him, you’d be afraid he wouldn’t know his own strength and end up crushing the poor plant kid. But...the more you watch...the more you see it.

Flowey really _is_ their kid. Asgore looks at him (even though he can’t see it because he’s always turned away, averting his eyes, looking somewhere else, sometime else) just like Toriel looks at Frisk (and, really, didn’t he say he was a prince before? It would fit).

They’re a patchwork family held together by lots of glue and tape, trying to keep together the best they can despite everything the world tries to throw at them.

They’ve been through hell before.

You can’t watch them anymore.

“I-it was nice meeting you again, Y/N.” Alphys sidles up to you, forcing an awkward smile, tapping her claws together and flicking her gaze to you and away. “M-maybe we can talk some more sometime. If you don’t mind. I have some things I’d like to ask you. A-about humans. It’s not often we meet many who...enjoy…communicating with us. Amicably. U-um, in fact, would you mind exchanging numbers with me?” Her phone is in her hands in an instant, shaking slightly in her grip, and you still can’t quite figure out what it is about her, if it’s nerves or what, but she’s brave enough to come and talk to you, so…

Why the fuck not.

“Yeah. Ok.” You hand over your phone, too lazy, too uninterested, to go about the mundane process of entering in every little detail yourself, and when you get it back you scroll through and notice several—not just one—entries populating your pathetically empty directory.

All of them.

She gave you _all of their numbers._

“B-bye, Y/N! Let us know if you—if you ever need anything?”

More than just irritated and confused, you’re...a little flattered. It’s always a weird mix of ups and downs with this group.

But you’re not really complaining.

In fact, your mood’s weirdly positive and there’s a little skip in your step as you walk the streets that lead to your favorite nighttime dive.

Until you remember you left your groceries at the brothers’ house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More like Downs and Ups. 
> 
> A longer chapter than usual and it was a doozy to edit for sneaky typos but I think I caught them all (and hey, I told you it would be up pretty soon, didn't I?)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Might be another week or two before the next update comes along.


	8. Try and Try Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's another text message image early on in this chapter (and it's not a full image so nothing is cut off/not loading, don't worry).
> 
> Progress is coming along fairly well on this so the next chapter will probably be up in a week or so. Thanks for reading!

There’s never been a worse day in history.

Couldn’t be.

Because one, you have a _job interview_ that is mandatory unless you want Nina to lecture you and you _haaate_ lectures, two, you’re more sober than you’d like to be, and three, it’s raining.

Storming.

Not even cats and dogs—more like lions and rhinos.

The gutters are flooding, sloshing up onto the sidewalks and you feel like an idiot for wearing your best outfit when you don’t even own a fucking umbrella. Just an old jacket with a thin hood and—this doesn’t make for a good impression. Not at all. Even if it’s just some dumb job busing tables at some uppity restaurant.

Your boots are soaked through to your toes and each hurried step you take is squishy and makes more puddles to add to the flooding. That’s what you get for buying cheap.

Thunder rumbles overhead and lightning flashes. You’re one of the few idiots (human idiots, anyway, because there are a handful of frog-like monsters mingling in the street) still braving the weather and not huddling beneath umbrellas and overhanging awnings to avoid the onslaught.

Your phone’s been vibrating in your pocket since morning but you ignore it because one, it’s probably Nina and two, you don’t want it to get waterlogged (even more than it probably already is)—can’t afford another right now—so you keep on running, looking for the restaurant you just _can’t find._

Fuck it. Just forget it. Getting an earful from that woman is a way better alternative to getting a free trip to Schlitterbahn when you don’t even want it.

This is ridiculous. You stop and take refuge beneath an overhanging tree at the side of the road. With your luck some rude fuck will probably drive by and hit you with a tidal wave splash, but right now you’re just happy the torrent isn’t blinding you anymore.

Ugh. Your bones ache.

You could use a drink to warm up.

With the way things are looking, you’ll probably end up at a bar instead of that slated job interview.

A chill runs through you and you rub your hands up and down your arms in an attempt to drive off the cold. It fucking sucks—one day, it’s hot as hell, another it’s rainy and colder than you’d prefer. But getting soaked by rain does that to a person and it’s kind of your fault you ended up this way so you can’t really complain.

Well. There’s no going anywhere ‘til this lets up.

You take a look down the street to make sure there are no cars speeding through the torrent before leaning against the tree and getting comfortable, taking out your phone and glancing at the screen as it steadily gets speckled by stray sprinkles. It still works, thankfully.

There are two missed calls and three texts from just the person you expected, and a few from Papyrus.

 

 

You close the message without reading the rest of it. Not that. Not right now. But that’s not the end to your problem. Just the beginning.

Texts are easy to ignore—but not so much when you hear a loud knock and look across the sidewalk to see said texter waving at you from the other side of a trinket shop’s water-streaked glass window.

“... _Seriously?”_

There’s a moment where you think he’s not waving at _you_ , that someone else like that blue scaly weirdo is probably (hopefully) around dancing out in the rain or something, because how can he recognize you with that hood covering most of your face? You kind of hope he’ll just stay there and forget about you—until he heads for the door and approaches you, not seeming to mind the rain.

Mainly because he has an umbrella (an orange, bone-print one—what’s with the flashy stuff all the time?).

“Y/N! What a coincidence.”

“Yeah. Hi. No—forget that. You _stalking_ me or something?” You’re in no mood to fuck around because of the weather and also because these run-ins are just getting plain inconvenient...even if half of them are really your fault.

“Stalking? Of course not! I have been looking for you to let you know your groceries are still safe and untouched at my home. I’m also out seeking employment for a second job right now.”

Of course he’s not going out of his way to stalk you. He’s in the same boat you are. But considerably drier. And it’s not such a bad thing he’s here with his umbrella because it’s doing well to keep the rain off you since the leaves overhead can only do so much to block the drips and wind.

“Right, uh...me, too.” You forgot about the groceries, to be honest—and went out to replace them a couple of days ago. But getting them back wouldn’t be so bad. “I’ll drop by and get those sometime.”

“The shirt you left behind is also freshly laundered and ironed!”

“Thanks.” A grimace crosses your face. Right. You need to return Frisk’s shirt, too, but...unfortunately, you’re not as timely and considerate. And also unfortunately, the loud comment draws strange looks from passersby to which you automatically flip the bird because they should really fuck off and not get weird ideas about it.

About _him_. And you.

You unconsciously shift your eyes back to Papyrus and take note of how damn _happy_ he looks, smiling calmly, how he leans slightly towards you whenever he’s nearby and especially how he makes a conscious effort to hold the umbrella a little more over you so the shoulder of his strange super-hero-like costume steadily darkens as raindrops pelts it while you remain mostly dry (or at least, not any wetter since you’re already soaked through like a sponge).

It’s annoying. Because _why?_ Why does he do this?

“Why did you ask me out?” you blurt it out without thinking, in a rush, and your teeth clench together as soon as it’s said. Your fingernails dig into your palms and you’re shaking and you’re not sure if it’s the weather or the frustration. “Did you really mean it? Are you just trying to mess with me? I don’t get it. You’re always so damn—”

His free hand grips your jacket sleeve and he yanks you forward as he takes a step back and you collide with his ribcage, almost bopping your nose against bone, as a car rushes through the flooded street and the resulting wave hits the ground where you’d been standing a second before.

“ _Watch where you’re going, asshole!_ ”

It’s what you want to say. It’s what you think some random dude is shouting at the long-past car that sent up the god awful splash, until you open your eyes and realize Papyrus knocked into a guy when he stepped back and there’s an umbrella on the ground and the guy’s getting soaked and more pissed off by the second and he reaches out like he’s going to push back.

You reach for your knife out of habit, almost get your fingers wrapped around its handle and shake off Papyrus’ hold on your jacket, ready to get this guy to shut the fuck up because he’s talking to you just as much as he is to Papyrus and you’re a little offended and a little guilty because in a roundabout way it’s your fault and if things get violent you’re just as much to blame—

“No worries, human! I’ll be more careful next time. I am sorry.”

Your anger deflates, replaced with dismay. He’s...apologizing. Just like that.

The passerby’s hand falls slack and he growls out something under his breath before bending down to pick up his umbrella and hurry on his way.

Peace is restored.

Shit...you can’t take it.

You watch the guy walk away before turning and heading in the opposite direction, not even bothering to say goodbye to Papyrus, but the further you walk the more you come to realize you’re not getting as soaked as you should be and when you look up you catch sight of the same, silly bone-print umbrella hovering above you.

“Damn, you really don’t give up.”

“I am only trying to help, Y/N. And our conversation isn’t finished! I owe you an answer, because you asked, and the answer is...because I would like to take you on a date.”

“You—what? Why—what makes you even think I...just _why?_ ”

“I would like to get to know you, Y/N. If you’ll let me.”

An answer’s there, right on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t say it out loud. It’s all too surreal. Everything is. Has been ever since this monster and all of his friends waltzed into your already too-messy life. And now said monster wants to _date_ you? Just—what the actual fuck?

...No.

Absolutely not.

You don’t “date,” because that sounds cheesy and fucking terrible and the romancing is just...not your department. At all. You kinda suck at it.

That’s what you want to say, feel like you _should_ say, but as the silence stretches on longer his face falls a little more and he starts to look resigned, accepting the silence as rejection, and it doesn’t last, because he’s smiling _again_ and that just makes it hurt that much more because, really, it wouldn’t be so bad. If you were anyone else.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I am satisfied with things the way they are!”

“It’s...” God, you’re way too soft when it comes to him and you can’t turn him down as coldly as you want to. But it’s better that way. “It’s not that. I have nothing good to offer you.” This is what you meant to tell him all along. What you two were supposed to talk about when you met up at the park, before the party, before Frisk, before...you got too involved.

But you could still get out of it. Forget about it all. Go back to your usual problems.

“Y/N...of course you do! We are friends. Friends don’t have to—”

“We’re not friends. It’s been fun, I guess, but I’m done, okay? I can’t do this anymore.” You keep a level, devil-may-care tone as you say it all even though it pinches at your heart to get it all out in the open like this and leaves behind something a little hollow because hearing it with your own ears, it doesn’t quite sound like the truth. “I’m not made for this shit.”

“I...don’t understand?” He reaches out, and you squeeze your eyes shut just so you don’t have to look at him, and one of his phalanges drifts across your eyelid and it’s then you realize your eyelashes are damp—not from the rain. “Why are you crying, Y/N? Did I say something wrong? Please tell me if I did and I will never say it again. Even if...you don’t think of us as friends. The last thing I want is to make you cry!”

...It isn’t really something you want to just let go. It isn’t something you just want to turn your back on. Even if you know it will turn bad sooner or later, like everything always does.

You told him what you wanted to say, but you don’t mean it.

But you can’t completely accept it, either.

You...don’t really know what you want anymore.

Your silence stirs panic. You hear him struggling to balance the umbrella in one hand while he sets his hands on your shoulders and the rain hits you for a moment but it doesn’t really matter since you’re still soaked.

“Y/N? Please—are you alright? How can I help?”

There’s nothing to say anymore—you don’t know, either. The rain hits you fully, hair and all and you don’t know when your hood fell down and his hands leave your shoulders—for a minute you think he’s gone and it’s all over just like that, but the next moment finds you wrapped up in a near-bone-crushing hug with your face squished up against his sternum.

Your world skids to a halt so hard and fast you swear you hear a record creak.

“...Fuck.” It comes out as more of a muffled mumble considering you have a mouthful of shirt, but that doesn’t stop you from groaning out the cuss and planting your hands firmly against his ribcage, pausing a brief moment before pushing away.

Papyrus instantly lets go, as if burned. As if afraid of smothering you. Holds you at arms-length and checks you over, worried.

“Don’t ever do that again,” the warning is gruff, but you can’t bring yourself to frown or scowl or glare to put any _real_ weight behind it so you just look away.

* * *

Papyrus stares down at you as you run your hand across your flustered red “tomato sauce” face, swiping wet bangs away from your forehead, and he reaches out automatically to push back the strands you missed but stops; realizes he dropped the umbrella in his haste to help. He glances around, tries to find it, and when he sees it rolling precariously on the edge of the curb quickly grabs it up and holds it over the both of you.

You always manage to keep him on his toes.

He doesn’t fully understand what happened, just now, but he realizes you are working through a few things. That there’s a bit more to you than he originally thought, and just being there, trying to be a pillar of support, may not be enough to help you.

But! There must be something he can do, because he is the Great Papyrus and he can’t just give up. Even if this is a minor hiccup in his plan, there must be another way. All he has to do is try harder—and you’re still here, aren’t you? That’s always a good sign.

First things first, being out in the cold rain isn’t good for humans—he knows, because Frisk got ill from a day of jumping in puddles once before and human sicknesses seem painful. Something he doesn’t want you to experience.

“Y/N, my home isn’t far. Will you come with me?”

All you do is shrug and start walking, and he follows, umbrella hovering overhead as the rain trickles down.

* * *

His kindness is still a mystery. Just...weird. Throws you all off-kilter. Papyrus and his family all have a way of doing that.

You’re used to strings attached.

There’s never something for nothing. Someone always gets used.

Nina—she wants you to clean up your act and straighten out. Stop being a useless pile of shit (not that she’d ever say that to your face but you’re sure she’s thought it before), but for what? To look better for the family as the shining almost-sister-in-law you almost had that still sticks around for some reason? Because of some savior complex? You don’t know or care to think more on it than that but you know it’s also for her benefit.

Sans—short shit that he is, you’re pretty sure he hasn’t tried to kick your ass yet because he wants you to have that talk with Papyrus and, finally, just wander off and out of their lives for good.

Free drinks at the bar—no matter who it’s from, it’s usually followed by a quick fuck or blowjob in the nearest bathroom and you’re not proud of it but sometimes you’re too damn desperate and low on cash to care and what’s whoring yourself out just a little when you get something you want in return…?

Papyrus—you don’t know what he wants. It doesn’t compute.

Maybe he’s some twisted fuck who just likes to mess with humans. Maybe the kindness is all a huge farce to get you to let your guard down and then what?

Your thoughts fall apart as you stumble and fall on your side while painstakingly peeling the wet jeans from your legs and a hissing sigh leaves your lips as you stare up at the ceiling of his bedroom. Soaked denim is a _bitch_ to deal with.

...At least he’s nice enough to lend you warm, dry clothes. Your reclaimed shirt, but a pair of basketball shorts that look almost offensively like the ones his brother wears.

They probably are.

But Frisk’s pants would be way too small and anything Papyrus owns would be too long. Or short. It’s a compromise you’ll just have to deal with. Not to mention it’ll probably piss off that short skeleton guy and you can’t pass up an opportunity like that.

Before you can so much as sigh and push yourself back up, the door bursts open and Papyrus rushes in, worried about you in what seems to have become a habit. “Y/N, I heard a noise. Did you fall? Are you alright—?”

You’re on your feet in an instant, mostly thanks to him hauling you up and god _damn_ you just got those jeans off and does he even _consider_ knocking after he lets you borrow his _room to change your clothes?_

The frustration surges and he’s speaking, still fretting, and without anyone else around to act as a buffer, it boils over and shoots up like a steam geyser as you throw out your arms and shove, just _shove_ , so hard that you actually send him stumbling, but not because you’re particularly strong but because you had the element of surprise and you watch, with rising guilt, as his legs hit the edge of his bed and he falls onto the race car-print comforter looking uncertain, confused, a little hurt—you hear an apology rising in his voice as he opens his mouth but you don’t want to hear it.

You stalk forward and stand over him, biting your lip, not sure if you’re about to chew him out or apologize, because _you_ should apologize, not him; you’re the one who pushed him even though he barged in so thoughtlessly, even though you don’t really give two shits about him seeing you half-naked because it’s not a huge deal, he just—

You plant your knees firmly on either side of him, sinking into the mattress, and grab a fistful of the red material around his neck as you lean down, pushing your face as close to his as possible without actually touching.

“What do you _want?_ ” You barely breathe the words. But he hears. You can see it in the way he blinks, rapidly, and his teeth part but then quickly snap shut again. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t look afraid. Just at a loss. Surprised.

His ribcage doesn’t even move beneath your hand as your knuckles harshly press into bone through his shirt, hurting you more than him, and it’s a stark reminder he isn’t like you. He’s a monster. You let up just a bit in regret, enough to let the fabric slip through your fingers as you press your palms flat against his ribs, and your eyes bore holes into his eye sockets that look steadily into yours, unreadable.

“I don’t get it. Don’t get you. You want to be friends—you want to date? What is it exactly? Are you looking for some ‘friends with benefits’ shit? Are you just trying to get something different with a _human_ , bringing me here and all _?_ Just fucking say so if it’s that, because I’m no good at the friends or the dating part...or the benefits part.” It’s pathetic to admit it and own up to it but it’s true and the truth hurts. “So you’re outta luck either way. I told you I have nothing to offer. There’s nothing you _need_ from me.”

If he wanted, he could throw you off. Probably should. You’re not a threat to him and you know it, he knows it, but he remains beneath you, shifting only slightly, and you flinch, expecting him to push you away, to snap, and you deserve it, but all you feel are those strange, skeletal hands reaching up and grasping your cheeks and you feel worse and worse by the second because he’s so damn _careful_ with you no matter what, even when you’re being a total fuckwit and what you know you really deserve is a swift kick in the ass or a punch or two for always being so unreasonable and suspicious and spiny—

Something touches your forehead. So soft and gentle that at first you don’t realize he pressed his teeth to your skin and when you do, your eyes snap open and you jerk back so fast it breaks his hold on you and you lose your balance, toppling over the edge of the bed and landing hard on your ass, holding a hand to your forehead and breathing hard. “What the hell!?”

“Your skin is warm, Y/N. I was only checking for a fever! I’ve seen Miss Toriel do the same to Frisk. Are you not feeling well?” Papyrus sits up and looks down at you from the edge of the bed, offering a slight smile that's far too forgiving and caring and...ugh. 

He holds his hand out to you—a complete turn-about from how he usually yanks you right up on your feet, and for a moment you’re at a loss, just staring at the appendage, waiting for it to reach out and pull you up, but he doesn’t move. He’s waiting for you to accept.

If your skin really was warm before, it’s burning up now, all the way from your throat to the tips of your ears in shame. You can’t help it. You can’t stop it, even by pressing both hands hard against your face, palms digging into your eyes. He’s always just so fucking nice, he...makes you feel like you’re actually worth something.

Whatever that is.

You reach out, fingertips barely brushing bone, just hovering as an apology leaves your lips in a whisper, before you fully grasp his hand and use it to slowly pull yourself to your feet, not quite meeting his eyes.

Of course. You’re overreacting. He’s been nothing but nice, accepting…and interested? There’s no reason to doubt him or to try to find an ulterior motive hidden away. He’s…good.

…He’s brought a lot of good into your life, actually. And there’s not much you’ve done in return.

So…why not try?

You shift your weight and glance up at him with a steady gaze.

“...Ask me again?”

He blinks. Tilts his head, confused, one eye squinting as he looks from your connected hands to your face. “Are you not feeling well?”

Uh, oops. Not specific enough. 

“ _Ask me to go on a date_ again?”

“Would you like to go on a date, Y/N?”

“Yeah.”

“REALLY?”

His joyous outburst startles you. A grin brightens his face and you swear there are stars in his eyes.

...Maybe all he  _really_ wants is some more time with you.

* * *

**BONUS SCENE**

* * *

“I, uh…I should really get going now. Back to that job interview and all. Maybe I can still do something about it.” Not that you want to go. It’s just—you’re still holding hands. It’s been a solid minute and he hasn’t loosened the grip, but neither have you, really. You haven’t tried to pull away. But the longer it lasts, the more awkward it gets.

And you’re still not wearing pants.

You cough a little and finally try to gently pull your hand out of his grip and he lets go easily.

“Of course, Y/N! Your grocery purchases are in the kitchen. I will get them for you!” Finally, he hops up from his bed and waltzes (there’s no other way to describe that spring in his step) out the door and shuts it behind him, leaving you feeling like all of this happened way too soon and sudden.

Like…did that even happen at all?

You have a date with a skeleton. The first proper date you’ve been on since, what, high school? Hell if you can remember, but it wasn’t even much of a “date” back then and you can’t even really remember who asked you out. They sure as hell weren’t a monster, though.

Surreal. Way too surreal.

You shake your head a little and reach down to pull on the borrowed shorts before Papyrus decides to interrupt you again, and follow him out.

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t know your way around another person’s house because you don’t pay attention to those kinds of things and don’t really wander, but somehow this place has become more familiar to you than your own junk heap.

You can hear Papyrus humming in the kitchen, the rustle of plastic bags, and the faint buzz of a radio blaring some upbeat pop song. He pops his head out from around the corner and holds the bags out with a smile. “There you are, Y/N. Please don’t forget these again!”

You accept them, taking one in each hand, balancing it all with your wet clothes held under your arm, and nod. “Yeah…thanks for keeping them.”

He watches you expectantly, saying nothing, but looking like he wants to ask something. Maybe there’s something _you_ need to say. But what the hell is it? How awkward. You rock on your heels and glance at the door.

“Uh…right. I’m gonna go now.”

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Yeah. Bye. Papyrus.” His name steadily becomes more familiar the more you say it.

When you reach the door, the sound of a key scraping in a lock meets your ears before it swings in to reveal Sans. You barely avoid bumping into him on your way out, and only offer a dry grin as you pass him by, and there’s nothing he can think to say because you’re sure him seeing you there randomly is a shocker.

* * *

Sans watches your retreating form as you hurry out into the cloudy city and run through a puddle down the sidewalk, feeling there’s something he should have noticed, should have seen, but not quite able to pinpoint it.

Wait.

He squints, just before you turn the corner and disappear.

“…are those my shorts?”

“Oh, Sans, you’re home early! How was your day? And yes, those are your shorts! Y/N had to borrow them because theirs got soaked. But I am most certainly glad you are home! I have a question for you.”

Whatever. He shuts the door and takes off his jacket, damp from the rain, but luckily only slightly since shortcuts especially come in handy on rainy days like this, and throws it over the stair rail on his way upstairs, knowing his brother will walk and talk. “guess i have _short_ term memory, huh?” He gives his brother a wink and Papyrus makes a grand show of rolling his eyes and sighing before shaking his head, trying his hardest to ignore the pun. He knows he loves them. “anyway, whatcha got, pap?”

“What are ‘friends with benefits?’”

“i… _what._ ”

No wonder you ran outta there so fast.


	9. Might Be a Good Thing

Somehow, you always find yourself in the weirdest fucking situations.

But this tops all of them—this just takes the cake.

It isn’t just the fact that you’re on a double-date with Alphys and Undyne.

It isn’t just because said couple is sitting _between_ you and Papyrus, separating you completely and sort of destroying the idea of a “date” altogether.

It isn’t just because Papyrus and Undyne both jump to their feet and shout at the screen full of vigor and passion and—some violent tendencies.

It isn’t even because the movie playing on the screen is an action-packed anime movie (who knew monsters were suckers for that shit?).

It’s because…

You’re kind of pissed off.

And feeling a little crummy.

This isn’t what your idea of a “date” entails and…skeleton or not, really, you just kind of want to be a little closer to that guy right now because he went out of his way to drag you out here and you’re trying your hardest to make up for being such a jerk. To get along with everyone. To go along with the idea. Despite the fact that his brother sent you a text to “make damn sure to keep things PG” like an overbearing parent or something.  

But you have to settle for sitting in one of those too-small and uncomfortable movie theater seats with a large bucket of popcorn on your knees—until Undyne waves an arm around wildly in response to something the main character does and knocks it onto the ground. Oh well. Not like you were eating that. Not like there’s anyone there to care, either, because it’s a matinee showing in an old movie house and the series apparently isn’t very popular despite it being packed with charm points and epic fight scenes and well-balanced, unique romance even though it’s no ‘Mew Mew Kissy Cutie.’ So says Alphys. As her eyes sparkle. As she clutches her claws to her chest and smiles up at the screen, completely mesmerized.

No one notices when you slink out of the theater and head for the concession stand, you’re sure.

It’s a breath of fresh air.

Well, air that smells a lot like stale buttered popcorn, soda stains and a dusty old movie theater. You swear you see dust puff up from the old, faded carpets with each step you take, and it irks you just a little because it’s messing up your shoes—your best shoes, the ones you save for special occasions like job interviews and…dates, apparently. Which you haven’t even gotten the chance to wear thanks to a) last week’s rain and b) the fact that nice dates sort of didn’t happen until recently.

Something shuffles in the distance and a blurred shape darting around the corner catches your eyes as you lean down to brush a popcorn kernel off your shoe—but it might just be your imagination. The theater is a pretty creepy place and the hall leading to the main area is pretty dim, so…when there’s no one else around, it isn’t strange that you’d jump at the slightest thing and set your hand on the outline of your knife.

But you shrug it off and pick up the pace a little, soon emerging into the brightly-lit snack area.

* * *

What kind of date is this?

Frisk has only technically ever been on a date with Papyrus before (assuming friend-dates with MK and Asriel don’t count), if _that_ even counts, but they know for sure this isn’t how they should go. At all. There’s supposed to be more kissing (as Undyne and Alphys have displayed frequently) and snuggling, and…cute stuff in general.

Undyne and Alphys weren’t even supposed to be there, Frisk is certain. Somehow the whole ordeal turned into a double-date when the former got wind of Papyrus having a date with you and it turned into this.

How does Frisk know this? Because The Great Papyrus consulted them on the matters of dating (and whether or not to wear MTT-Brand Bishie Cream or Anime Powder behind his…ears) because they just so happen to be a skilled, excellent flirt who can date the heck out of people. Allegedly. And because you are who you are, Papyrus was worried his typical dating experience wouldn’t live up to expectations. Not only because traveling all the way to Snowdin to show off his puzzles would make for an extremely lengthy date, but because he wanted to do something extra special. For you.

The grin hasn’t faded from Frisk’s face since hearing that, because their friend _likes_ you. There are hearts in the air. It’s the season of love.

Well, it’s supposed to be.

But there are a lot of “supposed to” situations going on right now, namely the fact that Frisk isn’t “supposed to” be out here all on their own. On a secret mission. To make sure things go well between you two (and there’s also a pretty neat mini-arcade in the theater—but, no, that’s not why they’re here).

But what kind of friend would they be if they didn’t try? And, really, they’re not alone at all, with this motley crew present.

Frisk does their best to keep out of sight while tailing you, and you don’t seem to care about keeping an eye on your surroundings so it’s not difficult. No one’s really noticed so far because they’re all far too wrapped up in that movie (and, they have to admit they got swept along in the flow for a few minutes, too because it is a very good movie).

They watch as you pace uneasily for a moment before leaning on the concession stand counter, eyeing the snacks presented behind the glass panel while you wait for an employee to show up.

They look kind of outdated. Like…Frisk is pretty sure that candy brand design was replaced three years ago. So they’re probably stale and expired, too. But not all of them. But they can see how the edge of your lip snarls up in disdain as you seem to come to the same conclusion.

You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself.

You look a little sad, actually.

Maybe staying hidden isn’t the best choice right now. You look like you could use some cheering up.

But just as they steel themselves with determination and prepare to make their presence known and to crack a quick, witty joke to earn a laugh and brighten spirits, Papyrus bursts out of the corridor saying something about the movie and, if they aren’t mistaken, wiping at his misty eye sockets.

He makes a beeline straight for you as soon as he realizes you’re there.

“Y/N! There you are! Did you wander out for one of the so-called human ‘bathroom breaks?’ Would you like me to fill you in on what you missed?”

“Uh…nah, I’m just here for snacks. It’s fine. I’ll go back soon.”

“Oh. I am also here for snacks. What would you like? I’ll buy it, since I am your _date_.” Papyrus stands beside you and glances down at the candy selection, awaiting your reply, and Frisk half expects you to move away because there’s something about being in close proximity to others that seems to bother you at times (or maybe it’s just around Papyrus), but you don’t. His hand is on the countertop, close to yours, just shy of touching, and you don’t seem to mind.

It’s cute.

Maybe this date is still salvageable.

In fact…

Frisk sidles up around the counter, careful to remain unseen, and reaches up to nudge Papyrus’ elbow just hard enough that his hand jumps up and lands on yours, before dashing off into the shadows once again.

Neither of you really know what happened. You both stare down at his hand covering yours and then look up at each other and ki—

No.

Cough.

No. That isn’t what happens. Not at all. Frisk’s imagination is only running on love-struck overdrive.

The reality of the situation is that Papyrus quickly removes his hand and watches you carefully, a little apologetically, and…just what happened between you two when Frisk wasn’t looking?

There’s something they’re missing, buried between the lines, but they suppose that’s natural. They can’t know _everything_ that goes on between you two. That would be weird.

“It’s fine. You can…hold my hand if you want,” you offer, shrugging and looking away like it’s no big deal and stretching out your hand palm-up towards him a little stiffly.

Out of left field! Just what are _you_ saying, now, Frisk wonders. It’s a huge deal!

Papyrus’ eyes sparkle and a smile slowly spreads across his face as he reaches out and gently grasps your hand in his, slightly swinging them back and forth as you both await the counter employee who…still hasn’t shown up to take your orders.

Damn, Frisk really wishes they brought a camera. Or a camera phone. Or—wait. They _do_ have their phone handy! A quick snap later, they’ve commemorated the first even remotely romantic occurrence between their new favorite ship. Undyne and Alphys are still up pretty high on the list, but _this_ is the latest and greatest novelty, because it’s Papyrus.

It’s cute _as heck._

Papyrus is growing up so fast.

Frisk wipes away an imaginary tear.

Now, the next order of business: texting Undyne and making sure she doesn’t obstruct the cuteness.

* * *

_This_ is the kind of stuff that dates are supposed to have.

Yes…well, it’s pretty innocent as far as you’re concerned, because there should also be a little making out and heavy petting and things as far as fucking involved, too, you were always led to believe, but one step at a time, right? Not that you’re even sure you could ever…

Your eyes are focused on your connected hands, holding together like the links of a chain; how the stark white of his bones contrasts with the color of your skin. You ghost your thumb over the bumpy joints connecting all the little pieces together—and it’s almost hard to notice between your rising body temperature and clammy skin, but there’s a warmth present there, flowing through his fingers. Tingly. Electric. Literally.

It’s weird as fuck.

One little thing can lift up your spirits and stir up butterflies (or is it anxiety?) and things almost seem like they’ll work out.

You look up at your date from the corner of your eye and wonder just what’s going on in his skull. He isn’t messing with you. That suspicion has been debunked.

He’s…actually pretty happy. If the little crinkles at the edges of his eyes and the brightness of his toothy smile are anything to go by. And the upbeat humming under his breath.

But you still really can’t get a good grasp of what it is he’s attracted to and why he’s doing this; why it’s _you_.

Why it makes you feel…almost special.

_Damn_ is this hard to get used to.

If he came out of the screen room a minute later than he did, you might not have been there anymore and all that would have remained was an abrupt text saying “sorry, it won’t work out after all.”

It’s difficult to handle.

“Hey there, so glad you’ve chosen to visit, uh, Ebott City Cinema Number Seven for all your movie viewing needs. What can I get for you, o customers?”

Finally, the attendant slouches up to the counter and the fact that he’s a monster, a rail-thin  orange cat, if you’re not mistaken, catches your eye. He looks fucking exhausted and halfway to roadkill. Jaded. Disillusioned with surface life already—but, no, he looks like he’s been that way for a lot longer than that. Those shadows and eyebags under his slightly-wild dead fish eyes have seen some shit throughout his life, underground and above, but apparently seeing a monster holding a human’s hand isn’t one of them because his eyes are glued to yours and his jaw drops just a little.

“Oh, Burgerpants! I didn’t know you worked here.”

Small world. It isn’t really a surprise Papyrus knows him.

“Yep, definitely do, gotta make a living here above ground just as much as in the underground. Yep. There’s no MTT Resort here but it’s all the same. Fa-bu-lous part time work.” He forces an uncomfortable laugh and looks like he wants to sigh but holds it in. Damn. He needs a breather. “So, what can I get you?” he repeats. There’s a tick starting up below his eye.

“More popcorn.” You shrug, having decided the candy wasn’t worth it since it all looked a little old and dusty. There might be a spider web in the corner of the display case.

“And Undyne would like a bottle of water! Alphys would like a large cherry slushie. Would you like anything else, Y/N?”

You scratch the side of your face. “Nah. That’s it.” It isn’t like you can ask for alcohol at a movie theater. Not the time or place for it, anyway. There’s always later.

Something jerks in your chest when Papyrus lets go of your hand to exchange money for the goods and he offers to carry it all, so there’s no way you can just ask him to hold it again. Not again.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks as you both make your way back to the theater room, where you’re pretty sure you can hear Undyne shouting something.

Sort of. Not really. Probably not.

“A little.”

He breathes a short sigh. “I have never been on a ‘double date’ before. I was worried it wouldn’t suit us. I am having fun! However, it was a bit last minute and is not my ideal situation.”

“Does your ‘ideal situation’ involve spaghetti?”

“Oh, Y/N, how did you know?!”

“Just a guess.”

“But I do hope you are having fun.”

He goes quiet after that, but there’s a skip in his step.

Things are looking up.

Until you get back to your seats, only to see Undyne and Alphys tangled together in a messy, passionate make out session. Cute, but—you could have gone your entire life without seeing something that private between monsters. They immediately split apart and Alphys straightens her crooked glasses, smiling awkwardly, face radioactive, as red as her girlfriend’s hair (who is grinning proudly and sitting with her hands behind her head, acting innocent).

“O-oh, you missed the best part while you were—were gone…” she trails off, smoothing the wrinkled skirt of her polka-dot dress down, sweating bullets.

Whatever. At least they’re sitting together now so you can finally sit beside your _date_.

Who leans in uncomfortably close, so close you can smell something artificially perfumed on his skull, like cologne, to whisper something into your ear that you’re pretty sure turned a shade to rival Alphys’ intense blush.

“May I…hold your hand again, Y/N?”

His fingertips rest on the armrest between your seats, illuminated by the animated lights flashing by on the screen. Slowly, you stretch out your hand and let your fingers hover over his, and he readily encompasses it in his, absolutely beaming, until the credits roll.

* * *

“Man, that movie was great! Who’s ready for the amusement park at the pier?” Undyne shouts as your group makes its way out of the movie theater.

You aren’t holding Papyrus’ hand anymore; yours are stuffed away in your pockets. “There’s more?”

“Of _course_ there’s more—this is an all-day double-date double-down!” She has the nerve to look offended, scowling your way. “Don’t tell me you’re already tired.”

Somehow, this date is becoming a competition.

It’s already perfectly clear that those two can date better—they’re the winners. No contest. You don’t care about that stuff.

“Are you tired, Y/N? I can walk you home if you are.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna have to bow out. A three-hour long movie is all I can take for one date.”

“…Whatever, ya weenie. Me and my girlfriend are gonna have a GREAT time!” Undyne says this with a bit more gusto than usual, but you’re surprised she didn’t put up a bigger fight considering she shoehorned into your date today and pretty much acted like a major cockblock.

But all the better.

You hang back as Papyrus gives his goodbyes and waves until the other two are out of sight. Then he holds his hand out to you and you stare at it a moment before pulling yours from your pocket and accepting.

“I realized I have no idea where you live, Y/N. I’m afraid you’ll have to give directions.”

“No problem. Just follow me.” You start walking and pull him along behind you, but you don’t think he really minds, considering he’s still smiling.

* * *

From behind a trashcan, Frisk watches the two of you depart and gives the air a thumbs up, nodding with the utmost satisfaction.

Ah, yes. This is how a date should be. They approve. A job well done.

Now that the work is done, it’s time for play. Namely, to follow after Undyne and Alphys to take part in the amusement park fun as well…

* * *

It’s a shitty apartment complex.

Old—not even vintage, just old—brick, chipping away; dirty windows smudged with god-knows-what and other things you don’t even want to think about; shutters with cracked paint. Not even the sunset backdrop can salvage how crappy it looks. The front entrance is pretty much hanging on its hinges but somehow still fits in its frame, and the hallways are musty and more often than not squelch beneath your feet from the latest bathroom flood. Only your fault once, when you fell asleep in the bath and left the tub faucet running (which you never did again after the frizzy-haired, high-strung landlady cussed you out good).

It’s shit, but it isn’t the worst. In a way…it’s charming. Yep. It has its little charms. 

But it’s quite a few rungs down from where Papyrus lives. You can’t find it in you to be embarrassed, though, and he hasn’t commented at all. He remains silent as you pull him along up the stairwell to your flat on the third floor.

You could have left him at the building entrance. You kind of wish you did. But you didn’t. You know you said it, and a three-hour movie special can take a lot out of anyone when they’re not totally interested in it, but you’re not quite ready to end this date yet, because it still has yet to feel like a “date.”

Not that you really know what that means. It’s just a weird feeling that you don’t want to let go.

All of this is weird.

You plant your feet firmly in front of your door and tap your free hand against the side of your leg, fidgeting, pretending to look for your keys when you never even really lock your door.

What now?

“Do you…wanna come in?”

Fuck. That wasn’t what you meant to say. That was supposed to be a goodbye.

“Oh, wowie, Y/N’s house? You’re really inviting me in?” Shit. His face absolutely glows as he snaps his gaze between you and the door, excitement growing.

You push open the door and hold it open, avoiding his eyes as he marches in.

There’s not much to see. Nothing interesting, anyway. Most of it’s pretty sloppy. A couple of dirty utensils in the sink, an empty potato chip bag and a full-up trashcan you meant to take out yesterday. But, you don’t own much aside from the basic furnishings that came with the apartment (previous tenant died in it, last you heard, and no one came to claim his stuff…but it’s just a coffee table, an old, squashed leather couch, a ratty rug and an outdated TV stand that had a TV on it once before it stopped working and you salvaged it for parts. At least you had the decency to get a new mattress even if you kept the bed frame.)

It isn’t clean, it’s a little dusty, but at least it’s not a total wreck. You have _some_ standards. You sweep your floors and put your laundry away when you remember and the only thing that bothers you about the place even in the slightest is the half-empty whiskey bottle sitting on your window sill. With the cap off. You forgot to close it before you left that afternoon. Shit.

“This is…”

You almost flinch when he walks into the center of it all and gazes around, eyes taking in all the little details, and prepares to issue judgment.

“AMAZING! Y/N, you have an impressively modest lifestyle. Not one for material possessions, are you?” He holds his arms out wide and turns around, nodding his head in approval at the unfolded newspaper on your coffee table. “And you even have the daily Junior Jumble!”

Well, if he’d seen where you grew up, he’d sure have something different to say. But he’s not wrong. You don’t need much these days.

“Thank you for allowing me as a guest into your home! Now, after such a show of boldness, I feel I must apologize.” His arms fall. “I really would have liked to take you somewhere that wasn’t a movie theater or amusement park for our date. I…am not very good at dating.”  He takes a seat on the couch, so old and sunken he nearly sinks right into it, and getting back up is going to be a little difficult, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he sets his elbows on his kneecaps and rests his chin in his hands. Then shoots up straight, smiling. “But I am very happy you let me hold your hand! I’ll take you somewhere better next time.”

“Next time?” you ask, sitting on the edge of the sturdy coffee table in front of him and running your hands over your face, suddenly exhausted from it all. Hearing him beat himself up over the quality of the date isn’t making things any better.

Really. It _was_ a terrible date and not just because of where it was or who tagged along. You’re not the easiest to date so you know you were at fault, too. Aside from his presence, the _only_ redeeming quality it had was the innocent grade school crush hand-holding. But the fact that he’s already considering asking you out again…kind of blows your mind.

“Of course, Y/N. I enjoy spending time with you very much. I am…glad we met.”

You’re _glad_ you’re still covering your face because it lights up like a Christmas tree as soon as he says that. And it sort of…melts you inside. But not in a good way. It’s kind of like tar, dripping down into a guilty puddle. “You’re…way too fucking nice. You don’t need to try so hard for me.”

“Y/N.” He calls your name firmly and you move your fingers out of the way just enough that you can see him and the way he looks at you like—ugh, with such intense conviction. Like he really, truly cares. “I want to try hard for you. I want to help you.”

It’s funny that such an innocent, positive thing could grind your gears so hard and get your teeth clenched all together, eyebrows drawn together, heart racing.

Help you.

He wants to _help_ you?

Just what about you makes it look like you need _help?_

Your hands shake and you press them against the table to keep them still, to keep a hold on yourself, and narrow your eyes at his shoes. Red boots, and, oh boy, that isn’t helping because you’re starting to see red, too.

This is such a fucking joke.

Why didn’t you see it sooner?

He’s just as bad as all of them. He’s no different.

And just like that, your heart hardens up again, turns to stone, and you’re sorry you ever got involved all over again.

You’re just a charity case.

A pet project.

A ‘help the poor, lonely drunk loser human with no job or life and make them feel _important’_ volunteer job.

You’re not even mad. Can’t find it in you to be, because everything is just…numb. Because you feel stupid. For even starting to hope that things could be different. For getting excited over a stupid date. For thinking about shit from the romance movies like hand-holding and necking in dark theaters and—and not being used.

You should have seen it coming. Something that might be a good thing—it just never is.

But…

A little voice rings in the corner of your mind, pushing back: what if it _is_ just a good thing?

Your head spins as you try to make sense of it all, sifting through conversations and proclamations for contradictions and…finding none. It’s only you, your mind, jumping at shadows and snarling at anything that tries to get too close and slips through the barbed wire you’ve strung up so tight.

This might really be a good thing.

Something you sure as hell don’t deserve, but it’s still here. If you just…accept it. Right?

Maybe you’re the idiot here.

The feeling starts to return, warming your heart, and the cement surrounding it cracks.

No matter how hard you try to fight it, there’s one thing you can’t ignore.

You…like spending time with him, too.

It’s a chance to do things right. To not fuck it up.

To be happy. For once.

Your fingers dig into the wooden surface of the coffee table as you gulp down the lump in your throat. Easy. Just relax. Your shoulders droop and you exhale quietly before meeting his eyes, barely glancing at him through your eyelashes.   

Right.

This is still a date.

And there’s something you want to ask him—to give an answer you couldn’t give before.

But he beats you to it.

“Y/N…since this is still a date, would you like to try,” he pauses, looking away almost coyly, almost… _cute,_ “the kissing thing again?”

You freeze.

“Uh...”

_Yes._

“Um…”

Shit, _yes_. Why is this so hard?

The distance between you slowly closes while you hesitate because words just aren’t working but actions sure as hell are; you catch a whiff of that powdery cologne smell again and the minute your fingertips touch his cheekbone, a loud knock startles you into jerking back and hurrying to your feet, left staring at a confused Papyrus.

“Y/N, open up. I know you’re in there.”

You glare at the door.

“Dammit, Nina.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here's cuteness and a cliffhanger (sorry)! Next update should come around in December 'cause I'm taking a little break leading up to NaNoWriMo. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, commenting, kudos and everything, y'all are great.


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